


Veiling of the Sun

by thegraytigress



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Brotherhood, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-02-21 16:31:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 34
Words: 264,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2474927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegraytigress/pseuds/thegraytigress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A twist of fate during the events at Parth Galen leaves Boromir alive and desperately seeking the One Ring. Succumbing to the dark seduction of evil, Boromir joins league with Saruman's forces as Legolas is captured by the Uruk-hai. The rest of the Fellowship struggle to remain together, and the quest to destroy the Ring becomes a more trying journey than any imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Betrayal

**Author's Note:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended. 
> 
> **RATING:** T (for violence, some scenes of torture, disturbing imagery)
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Hi, guys! I had a few people ask for this story as well, so here it is. Like "Perchance to Dream", this goes way back. Like back before _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_ even came out. Because of that, a lot of this is influenced by the books, as well as my own take on things. I considered rewriting chunks of it to better reflect the imagery in the films, but to be honest, I just don't have the time. Again, Legolas' past and family is not canon-compliant with _The Hobbit_ , but, again, I'm leaving it as is because changing it would fundamentally change this story.
> 
> This is entirely AU (obviously :-)), and fairly long, though not quite as long as "Perchance to Dream". No slash. This story features friendship, brotherhood, betrayal, and redemption. Hopefully you enjoy!

The forest had become eerily still.   He knew it in his bones.   There was something horribly amiss.   The woods here at Amon Hen had always been quiet, without the soft chatter of animals or the whisper of the breeze caressing the leaves.   But a foul tranquility had settled over it, as if it was holding its breath to conceal a darker purpose.   The winds had changed, bringing air that stank of ominous ruin.   It almost hurt to breathe it. 

Gimli stood after a moment of watching the Elf peer distantly into the woods, obviously wondering aimlessly what the fair creature sensed from the nature he so strangely understood.   Despite the general distrust between the two races, he had grown to respect Legolas’ intuition.   More than once during their journey it had proved useful.   “What is it, Master Elf?”

The other narrowed deep blue eyes.   A soft breeze picked up the golden strands of thick, straight blond hair that fell down his shoulders.   “I know not,” he answered after a moment.   Slowly he placed a slender hand against the rough, wide trunk of a nearby tree.   He stood erect a moment, bowing his head.   Gimli regarded him doubtfully.   “But something is amiss.”

The Dwarf grunted and sank rather unceremoniously to his rear on the log behind him.   “Strider and Boromir have not been gone long, Legolas.   Your senses are too easily excited,” he grunted, idly gripping the hard staff of his axe. 

“Nay,” Legolas said slowly, stepping down from his perch with nimble grace.   He closed his eyes.   “It is in the air.   Do you not feel it?” He released a slow breath.   Merry and Pippin abandoned their devouring of their meal, and Sam halted in his nervous twiddling.   Legolas opened his eyes and met Gimli’s stony gaze.   “There is a foul menace afoot.   We are in danger here.”

Gimli sighed, although his worry betrayed his irritation.   Anxiety was plain on his ruddy face and in his stout form.   The woods did seem subdued, and Elvish premonitions of this sort were rarely wrong.   This was little they could do, though, until their companions returned.   Rash actions would only serve to separate the Fellowship further.   As it was, this close to Mordor, the thought was quite unpleasant. 

They were silent a moment.   “Do you suppose Mister Frodo is okay, Legolas?” Sam asked hesitantly.   His worry was evident on his face.   Tousled and damp hair clung to sweaty skin. 

Before the Elf prince could answer, there was the sound of snapping branches behind them.   Someone was running towards them.   The warriors’ actions were instantaneous; Legolas was quick to draw his bow and notch an arrow, Gimli rising beside him and bearing his axe, the blade shining wickedly in the bright afternoon sun. 

“ _Legolas!  Gimli!_ ” Ahead the trees parted and an extremely winded Boromir exploded through them, his sword drawn.   The others lowered their weapons at the sight of their friend.   “Orcs have come!  Aragorn and Frodo are under attack!”

Those words were enough to spur them into motion.   “Come, small ones!” the Dwarf demanded, and the Hobbits scrambled to their feet.   They tore up the hill through the trees, following the bouncing form of Boromir ahead.   Legolas hesitated only a moment, warnings blaring inside his heart, but he too ran on light feet.   Confusion sang inside him.   The sense of danger had only become more acute, more focused, and infinitely more frightening.   Still, he could make no more of it, for his friends needed him. 

Boromir lead the group up a hill, tearing through the trees.   In the distance, battle drums, the stampede of feet, and vicious growls grew louder.   The Hobbits were struggling to keep pace, but Legolas tarried behind to assure that they were not left unprotected.   Finally they reached what appeared to be ruins of an old watch tower.   To the left was a steep drop-off, the river rushing loudly below.   The sky was bright and warm overhead. 

Merry and Pippin collapsed in a fit of heavy breathing at the pinnacle.   Sam stood hunched, gasping, his hands on his knees.   Gimli glanced around, his face taut with preparedness to fight.   Legolas stepped upon the ruins, looking around with quick eyes.   Seeing no one, his narrowed gaze fell to Boromir.   The son of Gondor had his back to his companions.   Legolas winced.   Waves of something impure radiated from the man.   The evil ran chills up and down his spine.   This was not the same warrior before he had respected.   Now his foreboding had taken form and revealed its hideous nature.   “Boromir…”

The man laughed.   The terrible sound cut through the air and through their hearts.   “I never dreamed…” The insane chuckle of man too far gone in greed and lust to be reached by logic and loyalty spilled from his lips.   “I never dreamed it to be like this!”

He turned suddenly.   Merry and Pippin recoiled, surprise on their open faces.   Boromir’s countenance was twisted savagely.   The light of his eyes had been replaced by darkness. 

“Where are Frodo and Aragorn?” Gimli demanded angrily, lifting his axe. 

Boromir smiled, a cold, vicious grin that, in Legolas’ mind, sealed their fate.   There was a thunder beyond.   Fear welled up inside him.   The stench of dirt and blood and sweat invaded his nostrils.   There were black bodies moving around them, emerging from the concealment of bushes and branches.   Orcs, hefting vicious clubs, bows, spears, and swords.   These were hulking, tall beasts with strange white hands painted upon their armor and faces.   Legolas ripped around, glancing frantically, counting quickly.   Too many.   And they were surrounded. 

“Run, Merry, Pippin,” Legolas said quietly, backing up slowly, forcing them to as well. 

The Hobbits looked terrified, betrayed.   “Boromir, what’s wrong with you?” Merry asked, his voice wavering. 

Boromir only grinned like a fool having finally found a long sought after treasure, and the Orcs attacked. 

“ _Run!_ ” Gimli ordered, shoving the terrified Sam back down the hill from whence they came before whirling to face an oncoming snarling Orc.   Legolas drew back on his bow with lightning grace and quickly shot an approaching monster.   The arrow sunk deep into its forehead and the beast gave a vicious howl before falling.   He watched only to see his shot land, though, before firing at the next advancing demon.   “Legolas!” Gimli cried, his axe black with blood.   The Elf darted a glance at the Dwarf and realized quickly the only option was a retreat.   The fight would be futile, and their first objective had to be finding Aragorn and Frodo. 

Casting one last accusatory glance at Boromir, the Elf turned and sprinted after the others.   The screaming behind him grew louder and closer.   He tore through the woods, his acute awareness of the forest guiding his flying feet precariously over rocks, branches, ruts, and holes.   His heart thundered as his quick eyes analyzed the blurry surroundings.   He tracked the gray cloaks of Merry and Pippin.   They halted, Gimli not far behind, in front of a stone wall.   Beyond the wall was a sharp decline, and then the forest spread on.   There was a gap in the middle of it, where weather had corroded the rocks.   The Elf leapt down beside them and then skidded to a stop.   He peered over the stone structure. 

There ahead was a wall of Orcs, an army of demons and monsters.   They stood, shouting to each other in vile snorts, scattering throughout the forest like insects.   They were looking, scouting.   Searching.   Searching for the Fellowship with a blood lust.   He felt cold chills crawl down his back.   His breath caught in his throat as he beheld Saruman’s force.   Deep inside, for the first time since the journey had commenced, he felt his hope waver.   How could a threat of this size sneak up on them, on him?  Had his senses been dulled by his sorrow?  Were Aragorn and Frodo’s lives already the forfeit for his mistakes?

He banished guilt.   He would need a clear head now.   Grabbing each of the Hobbits, he pulled them flush to the cold wall, hiding them behind the concealing old rock.   Gimli did the same, lowering his axe.   The sound of rushed breathing was so loud, but it could not drown out the shouting of the vicious Orcs.   “Go,” he said quietly, looking to his comrades, feeling the ground quake with the approaching stampede of the army.   Shouts of Dark Speech ran down the hill, chasing them.   They were completely surrounded.   The river was not far, though.   The only choice afforded them was to reach the boats and escape into Anduin.   The forest now held only a promise of death. 

Merry and Pippin glanced at him with frightened, desperate eyes.   The latter looked around, his face pale with terror.   “Where’s Sam?” he asked quickly, drawing the Elf’s attention.   Legolas turned and scanned the group quickly.   The loyal Hobbit was not among them.   During the frantic flight, they had been separated. 

The Elf cringed inside and drew a long breath.   He loathed the idea of leaving their friends behind, abandoning them to face this massive evil force alone.   But they had no choice.   “We cannot stay here,” he stated simply, clenching his bow tightly.   “We must reach the river.”

“What of Strider, Legolas?” Merry reminded, concerned.   “And Frodo?  We can’t just leave them!”

The words hurt him anew, even though the horrible thoughts were already storming through his mind.   But he pushed his fear and worry aside and willed his body into motion.   He drew arrows from his quiver and jammed the points into the soft soil of the forest floor.   Gimli growled.   “The Elf’s right.   If we tarry here, we will only fall into darkness.   No help to our friends will we be then.”

Legolas nocked an arrow and inched closer to the gap.   “Go now,” he ordered quickly, glancing back at the group.   “Before we lose this chance!” The Hobbits hesitated a moment more before breaking into a run back towards the river, following Gimli as he tore through the thick woods.   Legolas let the shot fly true into the advancing enemies and it caught an Orc full in the chest, sending him reeling back into his companions.   Like lightning, he drew another from the dirt and fired.   Over and over again, like a machine, until that which he had thrust into the leaves was depleted.   When his concentration broke, he saw that that his friends were lost in the maze of wood.   He hoped he had been able to provide adequate cover for their escape.   The advancing army was nearly upon him.   Now he turned and ran in their tracks. 

Inside, his heart burned at the darkness he had felt from Boromir.   He had understood immediately what had happened.   The man had fallen into shadow, overrun by greed and ambition.   The Fellowship had fractured.   He worried for Frodo and Aragorn.   He knew not the lengths to which Boromir may have gone to win his treasure. 

Ahead he saw the shore.   The Hobbits had scrambled into one of the boats.   Gimli was waist deep, pushing the other away from the bank.   “Legolas!” he shouted, seeing the Elf gracefully sprint through the woods.   “Hurry!” Then he hefted himself into the canoe, the vessel precariously tipping with the weight. 

The young Elf pushed all the speed he could into himself, legs pumping, body flying.   Arrows were whizzing past him to sink violently into trees or the ground.   He could feel the enemy behind him, their wretched breaths upon his neck.    _Faster_ , his mind urged as he bounded to the shore.    _Faster!_

He was not twenty steps from the bank when he felt a blinding pain at his shoulder.   The force toppled him and he fell hard, rolling into the dirt and leaves.   He gave a loud cry as he struck a tree, the solid surface unforgiving to his body.   His bow fell from limp fingers as he slumped to the ground. 

Pippin watched thunderstruck as the arrow struck the Elf from behind, sending him reeling.   The Orcs howled in glee.   Merry looked to Gimli, desperately searching the Dwarf’s face for an answer, a course of action.   There was none. 

Legolas’ daze lasted only but a moment, but it was time enough for the pursuers to reach him.   Ignoring his pain, he reached behind and ripped the arrow from his shoulder with a splurt of hot blood.   Then he clambered to his feet, his usual elegance splintered with his hurt.   Helplessly, he looked out the boats.   He would not make it, and they could not wait for him.   The realization stabbed him with fear.   “Go!” he shouted.   “Find Frodo!”

Merry shook his head violently.   “We can’t leave him!” He grabbed an oar.   “We have to go back!”

The Dwarf stared at Legolas, and they shared a sad, brief look.   Gimli opened his mouth to protest vehemently that the Elf not sacrifice himself like this, but the resolution in Legolas’ blue eyes silenced his words.   He released a long breath, and the endless moment ended.   Gimli growled in anger and frustration, looking away, and began to row quickly.   “There is no choice now!” he shouted.   “Row, little ones, or his sacrifice will be for naught!” His oar chopped through the water with violence and furious power. 

The Hobbits were arguing, shouting denials and demanding that they not abandon their comrade.   But then they too began to row, as if realizing the Dwarf’s assertion to be true. 

Their cries grew more distant as they pushed their boats further into the lake, separating salvation from the lone Elf.   Legolas closed his eyes for a moment to steady himself, at once terrified and relieved that his friends were escaping. 

But the respite was brief, for the Orcs were upon him. 

The Elf turned then, drawing his long knives from his back with speed unparalleled.   He thrust forward, stabbing an Orc quickly, and then dodged the sloppy attack of another.   But there were simply too many, and his injury retarded him. 

The battle was long-lasting and he slew many, but more flooded down the hill to the river.  An impossible stampede of evil.  They wore at him, focusing on his injured side.  Finally his strength failed him, and he stumbled.   His shoulder was flaring in hot agony as he shoved the wretched, stinking Orcs away from him, staggering.   But it was not enough.   A staff struck his legs hard, knocking them from beneath him.   He hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud, the sky spinning madly over him.   In his moment of dizzy nausea, one long knife was kicked from his hand.   He slashed with the other, rolling to escape them, but a boot caught him across the chin.  A sharp tip of a sword came to rest over his heaving chest. 

The Orc sickly smiled, if the monster could do such a thing.   “Elf…” It hissed gleefully. 

Cold terror washed over Legolas.   Panic gnawed inside at his resolve.   He had willingly accepted this fate to save what remained of the Fellowship.   Still, the thought of what they might do to him curdled his blood.   The suffering of Elves at the hands of hateful Orcs was the substance of nightmares.   His fear spurred energy into his beaten body. 

“Aragorn!” he cried in desperation, raising his voice to the trees.   “ _Aragorn!_ ” Only the Orcs laughing answered his plea.   He did not have the time to think further, though, or to mount an offense, for as he struggled up a crushing force slammed into the side of his head.   Intense pain flowered through his body, and he tumbled into shadow. 

* * *

Isildur’s heir raised his head at the sound.   He had heard the battle drums and smelled the wretched stench of Orcs.   From behind a wall of trees, the stealthy ranger had watched the army scatter and charge.   But his path back to the camp was blocked by the troops, and he had delayed his return, believing Frodo to be in mortal danger.   He had seen the strange glint invading Boromir’s gaze and sensed the danger it suggested.   His search had yielded nothing and he had grown frustrated.   Upon hearing the army, he knew it would be folly to try and return to his friends.   Rather, he decided it was more important to locate Frodo and defend him. 

That sound plagued him.   Then, only a breath later, again it called to him, echoing through the forest as though the trees of Amon Hen were sorrowfully relaying a grotesque message.   The voice was filled with panic, desperation, and fear.   This second time he recognized it. 

“Legolas,” he whispered.   His heart clenched in cold terror and he immediately cursed himself for leaving the camp.   Legolas and Gimli were capable warriors, of that he was sure.   Still, against an army of Orcs, they would have benefited from his sword.   Without Boromir’s skills or his aid, it was only the Elf and Dwarf left to protect the Hobbits. 

Slow terror crawled in the pit of his stomach.    _An Elf and a Dwarf._  Orcs cared not for Dwarves.   The rank memory of the carnage they had only recently witnessed within the mining Dwarven city of Dwarrowdelf once again assaulted his senses.   Gimli would be overwhelmed by them.   Worse, though, he knew was the hatred of the Orcs for their beautiful and fair Elf cousins.   He knew what they would do to Legolas if he should fall into their clutches. 

Fear for his good friends spurred him into action.   Drawing his sword, he charged back towards their camp, caring not for the danger that undoubtedly stood between him and his destination, anger twisted his features taut, his voice raised in a battle cry. 

Aragorn ran quickly, cutting through the trees, ignoring the stiff aches of his abused body.   As he charged forward, his mind raced despite his efforts to keep concentrated.   What had happened?  How could such a vile chaos have erupted under his watchful eye?  He ground his teeth together in fury.   Legolas had warned him, but he had ignored it.    _“A shadow and a threat have been growing in my mind.   Something draws near.   I can feel it.”_  He had cast the Elf’s concerns aside and ignored his advice.   His heart ached to find a way to remedy what his own ignorance had caused!

Somehow, though, he knew he was already too late.   The woods had grown still again, silent with a false serenity that prickled his gooseflesh.   Aside from his rushed breath and thundering heart, there was only the rustle of the leaves.   Legolas’ cries had ceased.   He clenched his hand tighter around the hilt until his palm ached and whispered a harsh, Elvish curse.   His heart burned with boiling rage.    _Think,_  his mind quickly chastised against the fire of his fury.    _You know his tracks._  It was true.   Legolas was a stealthy fighter with light feet and quick reflexes borne from both centuries of practice and innate talent.   Many a hot afternoon in Rivendell years ago they had practiced tracking on the other in silly games.   He had learned then the marks of his friend’s swift feet. 

Finding them now, in this maze of heavy Orc plodding, would be a difficult task.   But no other choice was availed to him. 

A twig snapped behind him.   In the silence, it was deafening.   He ripped around, bringing Andúril to bear in a howl.   The figure behind him screamed, stumbled back, and raised his hands to block the blow. 

“Strider,  _no!_ ” came a quivering voice, muffled by sleeves. 

Aragorn cursed himself for his stupidity and immediately sheathed the offending blade.   “Forgive me, Frodo!” The terrified creature before him did not look up, bowing his head, tousled, damp hair littered with dirt.   Worried, the man dropped to his knees before the small Hobbit’s shivering body.   Grasping the other’s arms, he gently pulled them from his face.   “Are you hurt?”

Frodo sniffled, his pale cheeks wet with tears and sweat.   A bleeding wound painted his temple, matting the locks of his hair.   Leaves clung to his form.   Wide blue eyes spoke of unfathomable terror and unspeakable guilt.   The ultimate betrayal.   “He took it!” he gasped weakly, his hoarse voice laced with panic.   Small hands balled desperately into Aragorn’s tunic, twisting the fabric wildly.   “I – I tried to stop him!  I swear I did, Aragorn!  But I wasn’t strong enough!”

Something inside Aragorn broke in anguish.   Whatever confusion as to the source of the disaster that had befallen them that had clouded his mind disappeared with the painful light of understanding.   Still, his shocked soul shook in denial and he squinted at the broken form before him.   “Who, Frodo?  Who did this to you?”

Frodo could not answer, sobbing woefully as he was so taken with despair, but it was not needed at any rate.   Aragorn pulled the distraught Hobbit into his arms.   He knew what had happened.   He knew he had not been strong enough to stop it.   He knew who had betrayed them. 

“Boromir,” he said softly. 

He was torn between cursing his brethren for his weakness and mourning for his loss.   The allure of the One Ring had been too much for him after all.   Galadriel had warned them all one of them would falter.   Even though he had tried to ignore it, he had known inside that his friend would be the one to fall under its curse. 

The punishment for his folly was great. 

He held the sobbing Frodo tightly, finding no words to appease their consuming anguish.   Gandalf was in shadow.   Boromir had betrayed them.   Frodo had been devastated.   Legolas was in the hands of the enemy.   Gimli and the other Hobbits undoubtedly were helplessly fleeing or dead.   And he himself… he was lost. 

The Fellowship had fallen. 


	2. Fight For the Ring

Legolas was dreaming of Mirkwood.   He loved his home with an intensity that swelled in his heart.   Mirkwood was a glorious place.   Only a day’s hard ride east from Rivendell, it welcomed its visitors with an embrace of light and nature.   Its forests were grand, brimming with life that seemed to rest in a perpetual balance, undisturbed by time.   The trees were massive and ancient, sharing with each other and all that loved them an understanding that added a verdant love to a life.   Forever it lingered in the greens of the freshest spring spun with the gold of the sun. 

How he longed to run among the trees again, to perch atop their soft branches, surrounded by the green treasure of their leaves, and feel the pulse of nature around him.   This longing was a part of him always, directing his weary feet home after many a travel.   His mother had named him for the trees, after all, a divine premonition that her youngest child would fall in love with the forest guiding her spirit.   Nothing could ever replace his love for Mirkwood, his home, his land.   As its prince, he vowed to protect it.   As its son, he longed for it. 

In his dreams, he smiled.   He thought of Aragorn.   When they both had been younger they had frequented the glens of the forest often with a small scrape of luncheon.   There they had played, slept, and dreamt.   His friend had once asked him as they had lain beneath the soft warmth of a midday sun, worn from a game of tracking, why the groves of Mirkwood seemed so vibrant.   He had explained it simply:  _“The trees here have a spirit all their own.   Our lives are not so different from theirs, really.”_

Years later, Aragorn had fallen in love with Arwen, and he visited Mirkwood less often.   Still, when the heir to Gondor returned, old habits resumed.   The most steadfast of friends never wavered. 

_Aragorn…_

His consciousness came crashing into his head, and his eyes snapped open.   He saw the forest floor below him, jolting up and down nauseously.   His skull wracked painfully, bile burning at the back of his throat, as everything dizzily spun.   Closing his eyes was the only means to alleviate the painful disorientation.   He slipped back into the darkness again. 

When the discomforts of his body ripped away that peace, he opened his eyes once more.   This time he realized why the forest floor seemed so unsteady.   He was being carried.   The blood had rushed to his head, his pulsing headache settling into a dull agony behind his eyes.   His blond locks hung limply down around his face.   He felt drying blood trickle down his temple.   A few drops fell to the leaves below.   Those, he realized, had come from his shoulder.   As if in sudden recollection, the wound burned in fiery pain.   He could feel wet heat seeping down his front, running from the back wound down over his shoulder to stain his tunic.   A quick assessment left him reeling in panic and painful memory.   He had been thrown over a large Orc’s shoulder, the beast’s fetid scent assaulting his senses.   The bony shoulder plate was digging uncomfortably into the Elf’s abdomen, making drawing breath a trying ordeal.   He felt the Orc’s beefy and strong arm wrapped around his thighs, holding him in place.   Slowly his fingers traced the coarse ropes tightly manacling his wrists.   His mouth, too, had been bound with a musky cloth that smelled of sweat. 

Legolas exhaled slowly, trying to regain his composure and still his erratic heart.   He closed his eyes, finding his stomach unsettled in fear, anger, and panic.   It would do him well to remain still.   The Orcs had not slain him.   The notion was at once relieving and alarming.   It meant they had some other plans for him.   He suppressed a shudder and directed his desperate and racing thoughts elsewhere.   When they stopped, he would try to escape.   He did not dare test the knots binding his hands behind his back.   From the lack of weight upon his shoulders he knew immediately they had stripped him of his weapons.   However, it was unlikely they had thought to search his boots.   In his left was a small hunting knife.   Once they set him down, a moment’s distraction would be all he needed to find the blade and free himself. 

Time seemed to progress slowly.   Forever the army walked.   He kept his eyes closed and body limp, despite the Orc’s rough jostling of him.   Although sleep called his weary and abused form, he would not oblige it.   The pain had settled into a fierce hurt that plagued incessantly, but he struggled to disregard it.   He would need all his strength to save himself. 

Finally they stopped.   He felt the Orc beneath him breathing heavily.   There was rustling and harsh words he could not understand.   He strained his ears for the slightest sound, fighting to keep still and maintain the façade.   Another form, a large one, came to stand nearby.   “Has the Elf awakened?” came a sick, deep voice in slurred Dark Speech. 

“Yes,” answered his captor, “I smell his fear.”

Terror turned his blood cold.   A grunted chuckle.   “Drop him.”

Suddenly he was falling.   Legolas’ eyes snapped open as he hit the unforgiving ground hard.   His shoulder screamed in fiery agony, and he could not stifle a cry.   He lay there a moment, gasping, struggling to find the strength to defend himself in the ebbing waves of pain.   Then a pointed boot rammed into his chest, ripping him to his back and crushing his hands.   He gave a weak yelp again, feeling his ribs bend and bruise from the force.   Dazed and breathless, he only groaned when the Orc reached down and grabbed his tunic, pulling him up.   The yellow, monstrous eyes glowed and the hideous cracked face smiled.   “Little Elf…” he said in sloppy Westron.   “I will enjoy your suffering.”

A glint came from the monster’s belt and Legolas closed his eyes, preparing for the blow.   It never came.   In stead, the Orc cut the ropes around his ankles.   The pressure relieved from his hobbled feet, the Elf prince stumbled back.   Another Orc was already behind him and grabbed his hair viciously.   Legolas only whimpered as he was dragged forward, tears burning in his eyes.   His feet were kicked from beneath him and he fell roughly to his knees, the Orc’s dirty claw tangled in his abundant hair.   The hand yanked down, forcing his eyes skyward. 

His anger boiled. 

“Son of Thranduil,” Boromir announced almost joyfully.   The man towered over him, grinning.   “So unlike an Elf of your skill to allow himself to be captured.   Are you angry, dear Legolas?” Boromir laughed and turned.   The Orc holding him bodily hefted him to his feet and shoved him forward after the man. 

All around him was the army.   He had been taken to a clearing he did not recognize, but even pained, his senses told him they were taking him west in the direction of Isengard.   He hid the terror the thought invoked deep inside him.   All around him were hungry eyes.   He heard Orcs yelling and grunting, fighting over a meal, brawling mindlessly.   It was then his hopes were dashed.   How could he escape when he was completely surrounded by Saruman’s forces?

He felt another force watching him, this one weak, innocent, and terrified.   Without directing his gaze, he paid his attention to a leafy shrub in the wall of trees to which he was being led.   The sense was familiar.   Frightened but fiercely loyal and honest.   The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickled.    _Samwise Gamgee._  Deep inside he could only think a soft Elvish prayer that the Hobbit run or remain stealthily out of sight.   If the Orcs were to find him now, after winning their treasure, they would surely kill him. 

* * *

Hidden behind the thick, leafy brush, Sam watched with wide and terrified eyes as the Orcs led the bound Legolas through their camp.   The Elf had been injured; bright red blood stained his brown tunic, caking the cloth to his shoulder and flank in a great stain.   Still the young archer walked with pride, holding his head high despite his dire condition, and Sam felt a strange sense of envy wash over him at observing the Elf’s ever-stoic composure.   Many times before had he admired the endurance of his Elvish comrade, enamored with the elegant strength of the ancient race. 

Legolas did not seem to notice him, though, and he was at once troubled and relieved by that.   His stomach had become great, burning pit of terror and worry that sped his pulse and breath and clenched his heart.   If the Elf had been captured, what then had become of the others?  He clenched a white and shaking fist into the soil below him, hot tears stinging in his eyes.   For the foul and wretched state of things his soul quaked!  Would his cowardice later be the sole cause behind the suffering of his friends?

And Frodo.   Dear Frodo.   When the Orcs had attacked, he had set off in a panicked run, and all he could concern himself with was finding his ward.   But Frodo, a good, loyal friend for so many years, was lost to him in the maze of leaf and trunk.   The army of demons swarming around him forced him into fleeing, which he did with a heavy heart, flying blindly and helplessly through the woods.   Forever, it seemed, he ran, hiding behind trunks and rocks, gasping when his path became blocked.   He had felt like a horrible and selfish coward as he cringed in fear at the vicious shouts and cries around him.   When he had happened upon this clearing no more than a few minutes prior, he had crawled to this bush and watched as the Orcs tore at each other.   The black mud of his guilt and horror threatened to suffocate him, and he sobbed quietly.   Paralyzed with exhaustion and unsure of how to escape the situation, he had only sat and watched, praying that some grace of fate would deliver him from this wretched state and return him to the Fellowship. 

He stifled a wail of despair.   This was a far cry from the salvation he sought. 

The Orcs dragging Legolas along growled in rage when the Elf slowed his steps.   Sam bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood in fear as the butt of a spear rammed into the Elf’s stomach, knocking the wind from his form.   All that escaped the Prince of Mirkwood was a mere grunt of pain as he stumbled and fell, crushing his legs beneath him.   Sam watched in horror as one of the beasts twisted a claw into the Elf’s abundant blond hair.   “Get up!” an Orc roughly demanded, hauling him to his feet.   Legolas stumbled and coughed through the gag binding his mouth.   The Hobbit yearned to do something, anything at all that would aid his threatened friend.   But his courage once again evaded him, and he could only witness the brutality in immobile fear. 

A shadow fell over the bush, a cold aura that froze Sam’s heart and made his flesh crawl in disgusted fear.   An immense evil had assumed the form of a man he had once trusted and respected.   Sam held his breath, his eyes slowly tracing Boromir’s form as he towered over his captive.   He nearly choked when the man backhanded the hobbled Legolas, sending the Elf once again sprawling.   And the Orcs cheered in elation. 

There was a glint in the blaring sun as the son of Gondor turned to the massive army, a flash of gold that was bright and painful.   Tears blurred Sam’s vision.   The One Ring glowed in the sun as it dangled from Boromir’s gloved hand, still attached to the silver chain of Frodo’s necklace.   Confusion riddled Sam and for a moment he could only breathe the shock was so great.   Then his heart began to pound.   His mind raced with thousands of frightened and panicked thoughts.   He tried to deny this to himself, putting forth all his efforts into ignoring the horrible truth.   It pushed at his mind with knives and daggers laced with the poison of despair.   Boromir had  _taken_ the Ring.   Boromir had betrayed them all. 

Sam sobbed for Frodo, swallowing the wail in his throat.   He felt his heart bleed.   Denial burned inside.   He wanted to scream, to howl, to do something to rid himself of the horrible dirt he felt cover his soul.   But all he could was silently weep for them all. 

* * *

The world shifted in and out of a blurry focus for Legolas as he blinked tears from his eyes, but the flash of gold was alarming enough to snap him from his stupor.   The Ring glowed menacingly in the sunlight as though made of fire.   Its beauty was stunning and oppressive.   The simple elegance of its curves drew eyes into hypnosis, the mind lulled by the waves of power and seduction radiating from it.   For Elves, it spoke not of glory and strength, but of black tidings and repulsive death.   Legolas had to avert his eyes, the evil that was reaching to caress him turning his stomach. 

Boromir smiled gleefully.   “A marvelous treasure,” he whispered, a sick reverence in his voice.   His hand snapped forward and grabbed Legolas’ chin tightly, forcing his eyes upward.   The horrible sight of the One Ring burned into his gaze.   “Surely you must feel it.” The Elf swallowed uncomfortably.   He did  _feel_  it, though the emotions spawned by the Ring screaming in his soul were far from the pleasant allure that drew the hearts of men.   Nausea clenched him, causing the bright blue sky overhead to spin.   Thousands of senses of blood and death raked over his light.   A horrible terror crawled along his mind, eliciting a rush of his blood, and he closed his eyes.   “It is a glorious power,” Boromir whispered in obvious awe, palming the Ring, “like the warm rays of the sun filling your heart.   Such a beautiful bliss.” Legolas gave a cry of surprise and fear when Boromir pressed the horrid trinket against the pale flesh of his cheek.   He tried to wriggle away, but the man’s grip was far too tight.   The Ring seemed to burn through his skin to his soul, the contact with it spreading over his body with a fiery rage that sundered his senses.   He thought he might pass out; he nearly yearned for it.   “Beautiful.   Can you feel it?”

One of the Orcs howled something vile in Dark Speech, and Boromir dropped his grip.   Legolas sagged in relief as the horrible torture ended, gasping for breath.   Boromir smirked then turned to the monsters beside him.   Legolas swallowed his nausea, sensation slowly returning to his body.   Pain and heat.   Blood.   His hand was stinging, and the memory crashed back into his head with pounding insistence.   When the Orc had felled him, he had made sure to land upon his left boot and had quickly and inconspicuously drawn his concealed knife, which he now held clenched into his palm.   He hoped his captors had not noticed this small move, nor the relief on his face when he found they had not taken this last weapon from him. 

Then Boromir raised his voice to the troops.   “Legions of Saruman!” he shouted.   The clamor did not quiet.   “Pay heed, warriors!” The great disharmony ended.   Boromir raised his hands to the sky.   Clenched in one was the Ring, dangling precariously and glistening wickedly on Frodo’s necklace.   “We have won our prize!”

A lurid, guttural cheer went through the crowd.   Legolas steeled himself, drawing slow breaths, as the Orcs around him abandoned their watch, taken with the euphoric roar.   Now was his chance.   There was one on either side, and another, larger brute, stood behind him, his grubby fingers still tangled in the Elf’s hair.   His pulse racing, he fumbled slowly with the blade until its sharp edge rested against the thick ropes.   His hand was slick with blood, but his grip was sure as he worked the knife against the bindings quickly.   “The Great Sauron himself will revel in our triumph!” Boromir shouted. 

Forever he seemed to saw, his fingers slippery and his heart thundering.   The Orcs were celebrating in vicious and violent shouts.   Boromir was proclaiming dreams of domination.   Legolas ignored it all, concentrating without falter on freeing himself.   He had to get the Ring.   He could not allow it to fall into evil!

The ropes gave.   Legolas wasted not a breath, for the element of surprise would fade quickly, and ripped around, dismissing the pain at his scalp as the rash movement yanked at his hair.   He slammed the knife upward into the abdomen of the Orc at his rear, causing the beast to howl in pain and shock.   Ripping it free, he then jumped up before the others could react.   The Ring sang a dangerous lyric of glinting sunlight, and he loathed its sight.   But he would not fail. 

Boromir was caught unaware as the Elf thundered to him, bloody hand outstretched.   All of time slowed, as if teetering between uncertain and ambiguous paths, waiting for its children to decide the turn of events.   Then Legolas’ fingers touched the chain and closed tightly about the Ring, snatching it from Boromir’s weak grasp.   The Elf hit the ground hard, jarring his injured body.   The Ring felt horrible in his hand, aching in his bones and blood, and he winced against its vile caresses.   Concentrating on what he must do, he stood and sprinted towards the woods, towards the shrub where he knew Sam to be hiding. 

He tore through, ignoring the pain in his chest and shoulder and the branches that snagged his hair and clothing, and grabbed Sam’s arm.   The alarmed Hobbit stumbled but ran.   “Mister Legolas!” he cried as they tore through the woods.   The sound of the army was close behind them.   Still, he did not stagger, pulling Sam along as he ran.   Discounting the pain allowed him to put distance between them and the army.   Even so, he despondently knew that was only postponing the inevitable.   The Orcs had smelled his blood.   They would track him to his death.   Even if his body could endure the grueling run back to the camp, he would only bring the wrath of the enemy down upon his friends. 

If his friends were still alive. 

 _Such thoughts only bring agony and worry, so dwell not!_ Desperation filled the Elf prince as he felt his strength wan in body and mind.   No other choice was apparent to him.   His life was inconsequential compared to success of the Fellowship.   His heart burned in fright and panic, but he forced his composure to be steadfast.   What else could he do?

There was a large fallen tree ahead.   He pulled the small creature up over it and tucked tight to the concealing trunk.   Then he ripped the cloth from his mouth.   “Take the ring, Sam,” he gasped, finding each breath stabbing him with hurt. 

Sam looked pale and terrified.   He had obviously been weeping.   “Mister Legolas, I-”

The Elf took his small, dirty hand and dropped the Ring to its palm.   He resisted the urge to shudder in relief at being released from the evil touch.   Curling long fingers over Sam’s, he forced the Hobbit to grasp the demonic treasure.   “You must take it, Sam.   Return it to Frodo!” A sharp agony from his shoulder brought fear to his heart and then tears to his eyes.   Oh, but for the forlorn pain he felt now, faced with such an inevitable disaster!  However he only swallowed heavily and kept his black forebodings to himself, holding the Hobbit’s horrified gaze.   He had to be strong for them all.   His weakness would become the other’s.   “You must, Sam!”

The Hobbit paled as if in sudden realization.   All Legolas could do to erase his pain was offer a weak smile that did not carry to his eyes.   The thunder of approaching demons grew ever louder.   “I will be fine,” he assured quietly.   The lie burned in his throat and salty moisture stung his eyes.   His will was crumbling, but he forced the final words from his dry mouth.   “Your first duty is to the Ring and to Frodo.   As long as Frodo has the Ring, the Fellowship is strong.   I will not give up.”

Sam’s face broke in sniffling tears, but he said no more.   He nodded weakly and then crawled away slowly, scrambling across the leaves.   When he looked back, Legolas nodded resolutely.   After the Hobbit wiped away tears and rose into a run. 

The young Elf watched Sam until his form was indiscernible among the foliage.   Closing his eyes, he whispered a quiet Elvish prayer for the Hobbit’s protection.   Then he gripped his bloody knife tighter. 

A shout in Dark Speech.   Directions and orders.   They had caught his scent on the still air.   Fear churned within him, but he knew he could no longer run.   His right shoulder was numb in misery, his body aching and cold from its exertions.   He would face them.   There was no chance of retreat.   His soul quaked at the thought of what he would endure when they found only him, the Ring gone from his being. 

They were very close.   The trees screamed a warning to him, one he forced himself to disregard, and he stilled his charged breath.   He dared not look up.   His mind ran with possibilities, but he fearfully knew each to be folly.   He did not have the power within him to beat them now.   He gritted his teeth.   That did not mean he would not fight. 

There was a roar above, so loud it boomed through his ears.   He yelped in pain as a gruesome hand ripped down and grabbed his wounded shoulder.   The vicious meaty paw gave a hard yank, and he was pulled up from his cover and hurled to the ground roughly. 

He closed his eyes against the blaring pain and spinning sun only momentarily, but it was enough to rip the last chances of defense from him.   A boot smashed into his wrist, crushing the small, thin limb into the forest floor.   Weak fingers dropped the blood-slicked knife.   He blindly struggled against them as they dragged him to his knees.   The Orcs snarled and snapped, one harshly restraining his arms behind his back.   He drew in breath after painful breath, fighting to fill his burning lungs. 

He blinked tears from his eyes as rapid footsteps filled his ears.   Then Boromir appeared overhead, his face red with uncontrollable rage.   Legolas groaned as the man decked him viciously, ripping his face to the side.   “Where is it?” he demanded.   A vile insanity of a deranged passion filled his tone as he towered over his captive. 

The Elf swallowed warm, bitter blood in disgust, the world slipping in and out of focus.   Boromir’s eyes burned in fury as he struck the Elf again.   The force of the blow knocked Legolas’ body hard to the left, and the Orcs tightened their grips.   “Damn you, where is it?  Answer me!” A kick connected with his side, smashing into already bruised ribs.   He coughed as he fought to breathe. 

Frantically, Boromir grabbed his shirt and pulled him forward from the Orc’s restraining holds.   Legolas kicked at the man as he pinned him to the ground, powerful fingers ripping at the Elf’s bloodied and dirtied tunic.   Over and over again, Boromir cursed him and chanted “Where is it?” in a blood lust. 

When his desperate search revealed nothing but the Elf’s bare and bruised chest, Boromir leaned back up slowly.   He scrubbed a frantic hand over the stubble of his chin, sweat beading upon his brow.   A slow breath escaped him, as though he were struggling to control his temper.   The cold sadistic hardness returned to his eyes as he leaned down over the fallen Elf once more.   “You  _will_  tell me, Prince of Mirkwood.”

Defiance burned in blue eyes.   “I would rather die,” Legolas hissed back angrily. 

They glared at each other for an endless, tense moment, the world closing about them.   Each was strong.   Each was proud.   Then Boromir’s face snapped in anger, and he met Legolas’ comment with another cruel cuff to the Elf’s cheek, leaving the side of his face red and abused, smearing blood from a split lip.   Then the son of Gondor turned.   “Comb this area!” He stalked away, leaving his captive gasping at the feet of the Orcs.   “Strip him and search him,” ordered he.   “Beat him until he talks.”

The Orcs laughed their understanding and looked hungrily to their prisoner.   Legolas’ eyes widened, his heart still in panic.   When the first blows landed, when the hands tore at his clothes, he could not stifle his screams. 


	3. To Follow

Aragorn searched the forest for sounds to appease his concern, but again the woods were quiet.   He scanned the trees around him, then the floor, but instinct was only futile in this case; the tracks of the Orc army were so numerous and consuming that he would never be able to spot the nimble feet of an Elf. 

Gimli watched the man intently, his heart churning with rage, worry, and despair.   He reached forward and grasped the other’s arm.   “I fear admitting this to myself, Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” he began quietly, “but they would not let us easily find their prize.”

Aragorn turned to look upon the Dwarf, the other’s small, ruddy face holding only compassion and sorrow.   Then he bowed his head, his heart heavy.   “I worry that they have killed him,” he said sadly and softly.   A silent moment passed, where battered warriors spoke in ways not easily comprehensible to those that have never wielded a weapon in battle.   “But I worry more that they have not.”

The Dwarf squeezed his arm reassuringly, but they both knew the strength to be false.   Orcs were not kind to the Elves they kidnapped or captured.   Few lived to regale the horrors of their captivity, and those that did were maimed and marred beyond recognition.   The thought of such a horrible fate befalling Legolas twisted his stomach. 

Gimli sighed and then turned back to the camp.   Behind them sat Frodo, Merry, and Pippin, the latter two working diligently at cheering up the former.   Frodo rested upon an old log, a blanket salvaged from their supplies wrapped around his shoulders.   His eyes were blank, his face downcast.   Not long ago, what remained of the Fellowship had been reunited.   Gimli and the two Hobbits had rowed a bit upstream, remaining in the river long enough to elude the passing Orc army.   By chance Aragorn and Frodo had come to the shore not far from their old camp and not long after they had returned from the water.   The ranger had been more than dismayed to find Legolas not among them, the fact confirming the fears that the cries before had borne unto him.   Gimli had first been angered and then dismayed by the news of Boromir’s betrayal and the loss of the Ring.   As if hearts were not already weary with toil enough, Sam’s disappearance had only served to crush what remained of their morale. 

The sun was setting.   An unpleasant chill was settling over the woods, and the trees seemed to droop as though their limbs had grown weary from the trauma of the day.   Long shadows grew longer still with the slow dusk.   Aragorn chewed the inside of his cheek and looked ahead, folding his arms across his breast.   Indecision gnawed at his resolve, and for a moment he felt completely helpless against the ebb and flow of the melancholy consuming their group. 

Then he turned and drew his cloak tighter about himself.   Merry sighed and looked upward.   “Perhaps we ought make camp here tonight,” he said quietly.   His dismal eyes turned to Aragorn, speaking of distress and weariness. 

Pippin blanched a bit as he looked at his cousin.   “Are you sure that’s wise?” the Hobbit asked. 

Aragorn sighed and looked around once more, as if yearning and glancing alone could return their missing comrades to them, but found no words for the want of his heart.   Merry explained quietly when it was clear the ranger would not speak.   “When Sam does return, he will be disheartened to find that we have up and left without him.”

Pippin sighed and looked blankly ahead, his long face dirtied.   “If he does return,” he moaned almost wistfully, dark eyes blankly trained forward as if finding some point of great interest in the trees ahead.   “Foolish Gamgee.   He’s got no sense of direction, I’ll tell you that!”

Merry smacked his arm loudly, to which the other yelped and brandished an angry scowl.   “You never know when to keep that mouth of yours shut, Pip!” he admonished harshly.   Then Merry looked to Frodo, the irritation fading from his face.   Softly he assured, “Sam knows his way.”

As much as Aragorn wished to rest the pain of his soul and his body, he knew that the hours spent in respite would later needle him as a senseless waste.   Pushing the tired and grief-stricken group onward ailed his heart, but there was no other choice.   To tarry now meant losing precious days of tracking the army.   Even if they had already killed Legolas, Boromir was undoubtedly with them.   Thus there, as well, would they find the One Ring.   He did not want to consider such painful thoughts, but he knew he must.   Reclaiming the Ring from evil meant the victory of the Fellowship, and that undeniably was more important than any of them.   They could not afford to wait for Sam. 

“We must move on,” the ranger then announced, chasing the uncertainty from his voice.   For a moment the statement hung on the air, and the Hobbits stared at him as though they did not understand.   Aragorn supposed they wished not to. 

“Strider, you aren’t suggesting we go  _after_  the Ring,” Pippin asked incredulously, aghast with the thought.   “We can’t possibly hope to defeat that army!”

The ranger grew angry.   He knew it was unfounded, but it was difficult to stifle.   His own guilt and rage drove him to it.   “We can and will if need be, Master Took.   The One Ring must not fall into the hands of evil, or we all will have failed and again this world will be covered in blackness.”

Pippin’s face grew ashen, starkly white in the fading rays of the sun.   Merry glanced at him, trepidation and apprehension clear in his gaze, but a certain vehemence was returning to his defeated face, as though the existence of a greater purpose brought absolution to his bleeding heart.   “Let’s ready the supplies, Pip,” he declared, tightening his jaw.   Pippin sat a moment more, as if in sad disbelief, before rising and following his cousin to the few packs that remained. 

Gimli grunted.   “Tracking the army will not be too difficult, I trust, son of Arathorn.” His deep voice was torn in grief over the loss of Legolas, but anger was swirling in his gaze.   Aragorn did not doubt that, should the occasion arise, the son of Glóin would brandish his massive and deadly axe against the enemy with relish. 

The ranger gave a weak grin that did not carry to his eyes.   “Easy enough, my dear friend.   When we happen upon them, I have no doubt they will quickly know the fire of Dwarven vengeance.”

“As well the strength of human valor,” Gimli responded, sharing a resolute look with the ranger.   The loss they bore they did together.   The enemy would know their fury. 

When Gimli turned to help the Hobbits with the packs, Aragorn released a slow breath.   Then a small hand came to tug at his pants leg.   He looked down. 

Frodo did not meet his gaze, his wide blue eyes red-rimmed and glazed with tears.   His depression was consuming, sucking all light from his pale complexion.   The wound upon his temple that had likely rendered him unconscious hours before had now ceased bleeding, though it brought a horrid agony to his young and innocent countenance.   His youth seemed snapped, stolen, brutalized.   Aragorn’s heart ached for him.   “I’ve failed you all,” Frodo moaned despondently, fresh tears building. 

The ranger knelt before the Hobbit and took the small hands in his own.   “Nay, Frodo.   You were not the soul that faltered or the friend who betrayed.   Have strength now in knowing this.”

The small creature shivered.   Moisture ran down his sallow cheeks, glistening in the fading sun.   “Legolas is dead because of me,” he whispered.   “And Sam is lost.   I have only brought you strife, when this burden should have been mine to carry alone.”

Aragorn reached forward and with the pad of his thumb gently wiped away the tears from the Hobbit’s quivering face.   “This burden is all of Middle Earth’s, Frodo, though you are courageous to assume it for yourself.   Legolas knew that.” He felt his throat constrict in unshed tears.   He squeezed the Hobbit’s hands.   “I promise you,” he declared quickly.   Frodo finally met his gaze.   He forced solidarity into his eyes and grip.   “We will get it back.”

Frodo seemed heartened by his words.   The Hobbit sniffled and then wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand and nodded.   Relief washed through the ranger as he saw a bit of Frodo’s old courage return to his eyes, and he helped the Hobbit stand. 

Merry clapped Frodo on the shoulder brotherly as he approached, but said nothing.   Pippin groaned under the weight of his pack, but then righted himself and winced.   Gimli tipped his axe over his shoulder.   “If you would, Master Ranger,” the Dwarf declared, nodding to the woods ahead. 

Aragorn turned and gazed upon their path.   Leaves were trampled, twigs and branches crunched under pounding feet, the forest floor flattened as though by a stampede.   The signs of the army’s direction were blaring, an obvious clue even in the waning daylight. 

He heaved a silent prayer for them all as he turned and began to walk.   Behind him clanking resounded, and then the plodding of tired feet became the only sound in the forest.   As they marched, the ranger grew uneasy.   Each footstep led them closer to an unimaginable danger.   His soul shivered in silent resignation. 

The tracks led west. 

West towards Isengard. 

* * *

A small figure crept through the dark woods like a shadow.   Swiftly yet cautiously he slipped between the thick trunks of old trees, stepping on light feet.   Only the pale light of the moon showed him his path.   The white face in the sky seemed mournful and concerned for the lone traveler carefully navigating the cold forest.   It would almost be serene if not for the urgency with which the figure stepped.   He was running, forever running, charged now with the greatest of all responsibilities. 

Sam nearly choked on his breath as he finally happened upon the small clearing along the bank of the great river Anduin where he believed the Fellowship’s last camp to be.   He stared with wide eyes in disbelief.   Where only a mere few hours before they had rested, there was now nothing but vague imprints of boots in the sand and boats upon the shore.   The supplies that he had remembered to be forgotten during the skirmish were gone.   All that remained was one boat, idly resting upon the sandy shore.   Within it still, covered by a blanket of black, were a few pouches of supplies left untouched. 

A great sob threatened him, but he stifled it.   Crying would not do him any good.   An eternity had passed since he had left Legolas, it seemed, and he had wandered for hours in the maze of trunk and leaf, desperately searching for sings of the Fellowship.   The accursed Ring mocked him for his weakness; he had fastened Frodo’s necklace around his own self and tucked the trinket deep into the folds of his tunic in hopes of ignoring it.   He had never been good with directions, his sense of the outdoors dulled by long years spent within the confines of offices and taverns.   He tried to recall how he had found the camp of the Orc army and retrace his steps, but he was no ranger and the actual act proved too difficult.   So he had ran against the setting sun, with the blazing ball behind him.   At least this small bit of logic had repaid him, and he had finally found the shore. 

Discouraged, he sank to the cold ground as burning tears again fled his eyes against his will.   They were gone now, dead or lost.   He did not know.   The oppressive fear of isolation that had picked at his resolve since losing Legolas threatened to overwhelm him.   How he wished for Frodo’s strong eyes to guide him!  He almost found himself wishing he might encounter an Orc patrol, for at least that would be  _something_  in this terrifying wilderness.   Deep down inside he had known that finding the camp as such was a very likely possibility, but a fierce loyalty to Frodo and a driving hope had kept his worries at bay.   Now, though, he could not deny that the Fellowship had truly fallen, and he was utterly alone. 

For a long time he sat upon the shore, weeping for both himself and his friends, the despair and pain leaving in a great tempest of tears and gasps.   What would become of him?  He was no fighter.   He did not have Gimli’s strength nor Legolas’ agility.   He knew not the lay of the land nor the language of the stars as Aragorn did.   He was neither wise nor noble as Gandalf had been.   Even Merry and Pippin, despite their foolery, possessed a quiet loyalty and fierce determination that never wavered even in the face of the greatest peril.   He was only Sam, son of Hamfast, a Hobbit too shy at heart to even ask his fancy for a quick dance.   Nothing about him was remarkable.   What was more, all he could manage now was tears for the foul crisis upon him!

The moonlight covered him in an ethereal embrace.   Frodo had once said that he, too, had only been ordinary before the Ring had come to him.   He had been just a young Hobbit, enamored with fantasy but content with the Shire.   Extraordinary circumstances birthed a stronger soul, and Frodo had risen to the destiny before him no matter the pain it caused. 

His sobs quieted.   It would truly be weakness to succumb now to the grievances of his heart. 

His hand came up to clench the hot Ring through the fabric of his tunic.   In the face of disaster, he would not give up.   If he was fated to continue in this horrid battle alone, then he would rise to meet it with dignity.   He owed this at least to Frodo. 

And so he stood and allowed hope to find its way back into his heart.   Sniffling now he looked to the lonely moon.   It too had no companions, the night strangely starless.   Yet without falter it traversed the black of the sky, silently strong. 

Perhaps his friends were not dead.   The webs of life were vast and intricate; many paths and roads lay in wait for them, many possibilities, the fruits of which unknown.   He would meet them again.   He would put his faith in that for now. 

Sighing, he turned his gaze to the river.   It shimmered like dark silk in night, rippling with the cold breeze.   In the shadow he could barely make out the eastern shore.   The river was moving quickly, rushing towards the ravine not a league to his right where it tumbled in a great cacophony down the falls to the lands below.   Sam watched the river apprehensively a moment.   Ever since his youth, he had been terrified of water.   At the moment it seemed a violent and menacing force, covered in the shadows, threatening him with the soft swish of current against the shore.   He hesitated, irrational dread clawing at his resolve.   But he felt the horrible weight of the Ring about his neck and composed himself.   This would be the first hardship of his journey. 

Steeling himself, he pushed the lone, wooden boat into the water.   Holding it steady, he licked his lips and waded in after it.   The water was freezing, aching in his bones and numbing his skin.   Grunting, he hauled himself up and over the edge of the boat with a spray of chilly water. 

Sam shivered, glad to be in the solid boat.   He picked a large oar and began to row. 

The water churned and swirled with unseen power, so dark with night that it appeared to be an endless abyss that was sucking him down.   Sam shook with fear and cold, but made himself concentrate on the simple action of rowing to calm his riled nerves.   With a quiet slosh, the wooden oar sliced through the water and pushed the boat forward.   Again and again.   The sounds of the river and his own heavy breathing seemed amplified a thousand fold in the silence. 

A strange thing he did not intend then happened.   Maybe halfway across the river, the boat suddenly trembled and buckled, and the currents pushing the water towards the falls grew stronger.   Shock coursed through his small body as he frantically pushed with the oar to keep the nose of the craft pointed straight towards the eastern shore.   But the river was far stronger than he, and he cried out as it turned him to face the edge.   The oar splashed uselessly into the water and sank into the black deep. 

Though the flight across the last rapids before the descent seemed impossibly infinite, it lasted hardly a few moments.   The small Hobbit, terrified beyond all sense, grasped the boat’s sides with two shaking, white hands, watching wide-eyed as the edge of the water grew closer and closer.   It seemed such a silly thing, that he should have the misfortune to row into a spot of current that too strongly pulled in its own direction.   He would never have the strength to fight that.   He breathed in short gasps, all thoughts fleeing his mind in a desperate attempt to escape the fate of his body.   The boat gave a last few wicked jostles before reaching the end. 

Then it tipped over.   Cold water washed over him, slapping him with a hard and icy blow, and suddenly he felt weightless.   His stomach leapt to his throat, his heart stopped, and he could not breathe.   The feeble wooden craft of the boat pushed him forward sadistically.   One look sent him into a paroxysm of convulsions and gasps.   As if fate had cruelly left him to dangle, he was held there upon the precipice for an endless moment.   But that too forsook him, and he lurched forward. 

Sam’s horrified scream trailed into the darkness, the thunder of the water and his own heart filling his mind.   He could not think to close his eyes nor pray, paralyzed as he fell, propelling at unbelievable speeds into the dark below.   There was neither air nor reason in this vacuum, only the horrifying sensation of flight.   He tumbled downward, vaguely aware of the boat behind him, of the mist from the falls stinging against his skin, of the pain and terror in his soul. 

Then he struck. 

Intense pain flowered over his body, snapping tension from his limbs, and all sound was suddenly replaced by a dull roar that filled his ears.   Some part of him realized that he was under water, but his panic and pain ignored the blaring warning, and he choked.   He could not move, the vicious chill invading his body, snatching his strength.   His lungs burned and ached.   Kicking and struggling vainly, his deprived mind moved solely on instinct.   But it was too black to find the surface, and something heavy was pushing him down.   Red splotches danced in his vision. 

He was drowning!

As life began to fade from him, leaving him at the mercy of the icy grasp of the water, he thought of the Shire.   It was such a pretty place, filled with loving neighbors, warm, lazy summer days spent under the cool canopy of ancient trees, good food borne from centuries of tradition.   Home.   He had spent many a day with Frodo wasting afternoons away in the shade in a companionable silence, puffing upon the good weed of the fields.   How he longed for the sweet taste, for the companionship of his friends and family, for the security of his home.   Hobbiton seemed a lost dream, and it had since they had formed the Fellowship.   Even if he did return, he would never be the same. 

Still, he had pledged to Rosie another dance.   He had told his father that he would help him with thatching the roof of their small, old shed.   He had made a promise.   A promise not to lose Frodo.   Not to leave Frodo.   Not to give up. 

With a cry, he shoved upward, and broke the surface.   Gasping, water sputtering from blue lips, he drew in heaving breath after breath of sweet and glorious air, filling his lungs without reservation.   Complete darkness surrounded him and panic pulsed once more through his frozen body, pushing energy into him.   Had he fallen into some sort of cave?  The sound of water lapping against wood was so loud.   Logic returned to his aching mind.   He was trapped under the overturned boat. 

Sam shook in fear.   He could not swim.   The other Hobbits, especially Merry and Pippin, had many times in the past poked fun at his fear of water and his inability to move in it.   Although despair jabbed at his resolve, he ignored it.   He took at deep breath, the vow he swore to himself giving him strength.   He could swim if he set his mind to it.   He knew he could!

Pushing down from the top of the boat, he submerged again.   The water grabbed him, its icy caress sapping energy once more, but he refused to be defeated.   Struggling in the black, keeping one hand on the outside of the boat as a reference, he pushed away and fled from beneath it.   Now free, he rose again to the surface. 

The pale light of the moon directed him.   Maybe half a league away was the other shore, glowing like salvation.   He struggled to stay afloat, kicking, swallowing his panic.   It seemed so far away, and he was so very tired.   There was no one to help him. 

 _“You must, Sam.”_  Legolas’ words filled his mind once more.    _“Your first duty is to the Ring and to Frodo.”_  He swallowed water and choked.   His face was streaked with tears.   The small creature gritted his chattering teeth.    _I must do this!_

And so he struggled forth, kicking, straining, pushing the heavy water aside, gasping and fighting with all the strength he had left.   The conviction in his heart gave him resolution.   As he swam, words from a conversation he had once overheard floated about his exhausted mind.   Gandalf’s wise voice heartened him.    _“Hobbits really are amazing creatures.   You can learn all that there is to know about their ways in a month, and yet after a hundred years they can still surprise you in a pinch!”_  It seemed so long ago!  Oh, how they all had changed!  Before he had doubted those words could ever apply to him.   But they had, and they would still.   He would not fail. 

Then, after an eternity of struggle against wet peril, his toes struck the mud, and he waded to shore.   Once there he collapsed upon the bank, utterly exhausted, his body refusing to support him any longer.   There he lay sopping wet, staring blankly at the sky, relishing the feeling of the sturdy ground beneath his back, severely winded.   A great maelstrom of emotion swirled about his weary heart.   Despite himself, he grinned foolishly and began to weep. 

The moon smiled down upon him.   Such a constant companion, shedding its soft light quietly when all other lights had gone out. 

Then he closed his eyes. 

He had reached the eastern shore.   He had passed this first test.   Although he knew there would be many more to come, for now, this was enough.   And he sank into sleep.  


	4. What Is to Come

Legolas was hearing a great argument. The stupor of sleep was slow to fade from his agonized mind, and at first he made no sense of it. It seemed vaguely strange to him that he did not particularly care about his ignorance, as though responsibility was being shunned for the sake of the self. The black that surrounded him was too comforting, for here there was neither pain nor fear, and the Orcs could not hurt him. The soundless, shapeless void held his mind captive in a perpetual state of apathy, for he was simply too tired and too hurt to concern himself with matters beyond this embrace of unawareness.

Then the trees sang a soft but frantic lyric to him composed of the cold night air urgently whistling through leaves, and he lingered no longer. Memory then returned, tugging terror and panic with it to chase away the remnants of a soothing unconsciousness, and his eyes snapped open.

He blinked a few times, for the scene before him was tipped sideways and horridly unfocussed. While the world spun, his senses slammed into his mind with their own tale. He was cold and damp and so very thirsty. He felt horrible pain. All his hurts abruptly stabbed into him with a new vengeance that nearly stole consciousness from him once more. He closed his eyes and winced, struggling simply to breathe against the great waves of agony shooting through him. Moments stretched to an eternity before he felt it had dulled enough for him to chance opening his eyes again without becoming sick. After drawing cool breath after breath to soothe him, he decided to confront the world around him.

He was laying face down on the forest floor, blunted twigs and stones poking uncomfortably into the soft flesh of his bare belly, leaves matted into his hair and sticking to his skin. His hands were once again tied behind him, and though the strength evaded him to attempt to pull at the ropes, he knew the knots were impossibly tight. His ankles were of much the same fate. Even if he could somehow free himself, he knew his feet would prove useless as they were numb and aching from the bindings. The air had grown cold with night, and without his tunic the chill invaded his hapless form with ease. Anew he suffered the many bruises and cuts that covered him, results of the beating before. His shoulder burned in fiery agony, and the position of his arms only further aggravated the vicious injury. Every breath sent searing pain lacing down his chest, and he fought to turn over to relieve the stress upon his wounded ribs. Intense hurt was the only reward for his squirming movements, but he managed only to tip himself onto his side. It was enough for him to curl tighter, drawing his knees up to his chest to conserve whatever meager heat his body still radiated.

There was a low grumbling. He then cursed himself viciously, realizing the folly of his action. Two Orcs stood guarding him, one on either side and a bit ahead, their oppressive stench of foul things, sweat, and blood twisting his already upset stomach. Fear pulsed through him in debilitating waves and he squeezed his eyes shut. All he could not to shiver was bite hard into his tongue and stiffen every limb. His heart was booming in anticipation that they would begin their torment of him anew, for surely they had noticed his wakening!

What he dreaded came not, and he risked peeking through lowered eyelids. They had not turned to him, both still watching a scene ahead that was hidden to him. The soldiers were tense, shedding their anxiety in great waves that served to worry the Elf's heart. Clearly they were unnerved, and the trees sang now of contention and conflict. When the vicious words of the distant argument again assailed his ears, he took pains this time to concentrate upon them. Something was amiss in the army camp. Though his hearing was keen, a distracting racket of the army served to hide anything to answer the panicked questions swirling about his racing mind, the mesh of snorts, screams, and grunts masking conversations, and his command of Dark Speech was not sufficient enough to weed through all the words he heard. But as the argument grew closer with approaching footsteps, not only did its content become frighteningly clear, he recognized one voice.

Boromir's tone was filled with cold fury as he stepped closer. "No where to be found," he said, slightly winded. Legolas cringed inwardly at the evil he heard in the other's tone. "It  _must_  be here! Did you search everywhere?" he demanded hotly.

The two Orcs guarding him humbly stepped aside, as though in reverence or fear. There was a deep, guttural snarl. "Everywhere. There is no Ring." He knew the inhuman voice from before: the massive Orc that had led him to Boromir after he had been captured. This demon was clearly their leader and the commander of this vile army.

Boromir shouted, clearly frustrated beyond all control, "It must be here, if the Elf does not possess it!" His eyes narrowed dangerously, threateningly as he stepped closer to the Orc. They were nearly of equal stature, though the monster was broad about the chest under blackened armor. "If you lie, I will personally see to your death. I will not tolerate failure!"

The Orc's snub-nosed face was taut in a growl, and his huge, dirty mane of black locks wavered as he howled in fury. Then he ripped about. Faster than Legolas could prevent, even if he was able enough to try, the beast reached down and hauled him up, his massive claws wrapped sadistically about the Elf's pale, white neck.

A yelp fled Legolas' mouth as he was yanked from the ground. His body screamed in agonizing protest as he was slammed into the massive trunk of a tree. The world fell in and out of focus as he choked, the Orc's grip upon his throat like iron, squeezing vulnerable flesh. Sharp nails drew hot blood.

The beast lifted the young prince from his feet, scraping his back and hands against the rough bark. He leaned close to Legolas' pained face, sneering in obvious glee at the grimace. "Where is the Ring, little Elf?" he slurred. Legolas' lungs burned, and he instinctively squirmed weakly. Everything was ablaze as air faded. Blackness encroached upon his vision, devouring the periphery, but not enough to hide the glint of the twisted and wicked knife in the moonlight as it flashed. A breath later it came to rest upon his quivering and dirty cheek.

What could only be described as lust danced merrily and violently in the Orc's beady gaze. "Answer!" he shouted. The sharp edge of the blade traced down his flesh slowly, as if in a sadistic caress, drawing beads of bright blood. So dazed from strangulation, Legolas did not notice the sting. In spite of himself, he shook in great terror. "If you do not, you will only live long enough to see your blood cover this forest of yours!" Even if Legolas had wanted to answer, he could neither get breath in his lungs nor strength in his lips to form the words. He buried the truth where the pain could not reach it and embraced unconsciousness whole-heartedly. The Orc squeezed him tighter, and he faded away.

Then he hit the ground. No air was left in him to cry out in pain, the force jostling his battered body angrily. He lay there in a heap, gasping, each breath shuddering in and out of him. Before he could recover, a boot slammed into his stomach, forcing all the air he had selfishly sought again out of his body. Weakly, he curled into a ball, trying to protect his vulnerable abdomen.

No more blows followed though, and Legolas choked, gasping through clenched teeth. He squeezed his eyes shut against hot tears.

Boromir spoke again. "He will not divulge what he has done with the Ring." The man's words were blunt and frustrated. "Nothing that we can do to him will force him. You cannot break the will of an Elf with simple discomforts."

Silence. Then a cry of absolute anger, and the Orc turned to the hapless Legolas again. A meaty claw wrapped into the Elf's long blond locks and yanked his body upward again. Despair slammed into him as he realized what was about to occur. The young prince saw the peaceful moon above for the briefest second. It was sad but strong, and he drew the will to chase away his shaking rage and sorrow, trading them for tranquility of acceptance. To die here, at least, meant they would never find Sam. Then the murderous Orc filled his blurred vision. "He is of no use to us then," the demon declared gleefully, raising the knife to strike.

Boromir jerked forward and caught the descending fist. Rage clear in his tense frame, the son of Gondor shoved the Orc back. The beast howled again and stumbled, releasing the Elf. Legolas crumpled to the ground. Though pain, terror and surprise shook him, he scrambled to pull himself up and back, drawing his knees once more to his chest protectively.

The giant Orc snarled spitefully at Boromir, gripping his knife so tightly that muscles of his arm bulged like rocks. He stepped closer to the man, his stride tall, proud, and ominous. "You will not interfere,  _human_ ," he sneered quietly. Venom dripped from the rasping words. "The Elf is our catch. We will use him as we please."

Boromir stood unyielding. A cool breeze swept by, screaming through the trees, and it brushed aside the warrior's sandy hair. His eyes shone in the moonlight. A strange storm of emotion warped them, a tempest of sorts that made Legolas fear the suffocation might have truly damaged his mind. A blinding madness and rage screamed a foul danger and a greater strength borne from absolute corruption. Yet there still lived something else, a tiny speck of good that seemed utterly misplaced as it struggled to survive in the sea of turmoil. It glowed like a firefly, a small reminder of the man Boromir had once been, of the companion and fighter Legolas had once respected and trusted. Could it be that the son of Gondor was breaking from the foul seduction of the One Ring? Could he dare have such a hope? His heart nearly quaked with the idea.

"The Elf is not yours to kill," Boromir stated simply. His words held an unspoken threat. "He belongs now to Saruman, as you do. If you betray your master, you have betrayed your making. I will see you dead before you soil his creation."

The Orc screamed and drew his long, hooked weapon, but his army did not answer. Legolas watched astonished. The monster stepped to Boromir. "You presume much!" he shouted.

"You not enough," Boromir responded, "for to slay the Elf now destroys the last connection with the Ring. Finding it is more important than your sport!" The Orc growled and swung his blade down. There was a metallic ring, and Legolas looked back to the son of Gondor. Boromir unsheathed his long, elegant sword. The silver blade shimmered in the light softly, its edges screaming a tale of past blood and future murder. This he leveled at the other. "Stand down," he ordered slowly, vehemently, "or I will kill you."

They stood still then, two combatants of tremendous power and intimidation, preparing to fight for the ownership of the Elf. Legolas stared numbly in confusion, but the slow pain of understanding filled him, and this he could not deny for all the wish of his heart. The Orcs would see him beaten and mutilated, but dead at least, so he might carry his burning secret into the shadow. If Boromir won this battle, though, he knew that luxury would not be afforded him. He would be taken to Isengard and made to kneel before Saruman. He shuddered. He could not allow that to happen!

Yet he was stilled by his own weakness and compassion. His heart boomed in rage that he move now to free himself, when his captors were engrossed in the tense scene before them. But Legolas simply could not. It was a bitter irony if any had ever slapped him.

He did not want to see Boromir die.

The Orc howled and fell into an aggressive fighting stance. "You will pay for your insolence!" he cried as he charged. Massive feet thundered forward in a spray of leaves and dirt. Boromir did not retreat but stood tall, bearing his own blade to strike.

The swords cracked together with a shower of sparks and a screech of metal. They grinded at each other, but neither the Orc nor Boromir lost ground in the test of strength. The beast's face was ferocious and horrible, sneering hatefully. Boromir was achingly cold and hard, his eyes alive with power. Then they split, and the monster gave a roar. The other Orcs watched in stupefaction in the camp, as if they waited for the battle's termination to side with whoever was the victor. Such foul creatures!

Blades sliced through the air as they fought, narrowly missing cutting flesh and severing limbs. Boromir moved with silent grace, the lines of his strong body flawlessly flowing with his weapon, as he feigned and countered the massive swings of his nemesis. The Orc's own attacks lacked elegance but held great strength. They drove huge holes into the soil when they failed to meet their mark and in stead struck the ground. As the fight progressed in a blur of blocks and attacks that would have left normal eyes daft, Legolas found himself marveling at Boromir's speed and strength. The son of Gondor before had been an able swordsman, his reflexes quick and his swing mighty. However, something greater had twisted Boromir's stances, creating a cold killer from once a noble protector. He had hardly broken a sweat or drawn a gasping breath, and the Elf found this disconcerting. The Orc had been a formidable opponent, yet now he was scarcely a threat, and his fierce attacks were sloppy and arrogant. Boromir batted them away with ease. Never before had such skill graced him! Was this a gift of the Ring?

The Orc, for his own part, stumbled. If he as well was unnerved by this, it did not show on his cracked and disfigured face. In rage he screamed to the sky, and lunged at Boromir, the vicious blade raised to strike. The son of Gondor smirked and whirled, deflecting the blow. His sword screamed upward and with a spray of foul, brackish blood, he sliced the Orc's arm clean from its body. The useless limb fell limply to the ground.

With a demonic screech, the Orc rounded on him, showing neither pain nor fear. But it was for naught, for Boromir tightened the grip upon the hilt of his blade and swung high. Legolas winced. The sharp edge met little resistance as it cut through the thick neck, and the severed head tumbled to the forest floor. The decapitated body crumpled downward a moment after.

Everything stayed still a moment. The forest was still and eerie. Then Boromir, breathing quietly and clearly not perturbed, leaned down and wiped the black blood from his sword upon the headless corpse. He then glanced threateningly about him. The rest of the army watched, astounded and frightened. "Hear this!" he hollered to the troops, glaring at the monsters. Quite a few shrank back in fear. "I now command this army! Cross me not, for I smite you as easily as I did your leader!" The Orcs shrieked a moment, and then grunted and shouted their submission. Legolas watched the spectacle with apprehensive eyes.

The son of Gondor leveled his blade at one the Orcs stationed near the Elf. "Make preparations for departure. We continue west." The beast narrowed his gaze and then grunted in affirmation. He hurried off, shouting in Dark Speech to companions. Their retreating forms faded into the shadows.

Boromir returned his sword to his sheath. There he stood, proudly gazing upon the Orcs as they quickly readied themselves. "Do not thank me, Elf," he said after a moment. "What awaits you now will be far worse than the abuse of Orcs."

Legolas glared, finally struggling to his knees, whatever sense of companionship he had previously felt for the man fading in the rush of his angry heart. "You are a fool, Boromir," he said quietly, his tone seething, "to think that I will falter. Saruman does not frighten me any more than you do."

Rage flashed across the man's face, and he ripped around. The cold leather of his gloved hand slapped across Legolas' cheek, sending the young prince roughly to the ground. Pain flowered from his injured shoulder and bruised ribs, and all he could do to stifle a scream was bite hard upon his tongue.

A weight fell upon his chest. When the hurt faded enough to concentrate once more, he found Boromir's boot planted upon him, crushing him into the ground. "Why do you struggle, Legolas? The Fellowship has broken! There is no sense in prolonging your defeat!"

The Elf gasped. Only his anger gave him vigor. "As long as you do not hold the Ring, then the Fellowship is strong. I made a vow upon my honor to protect Frodo and the Ring! I will not betray the others as you have!" Boromir growled and shifted his weight from his other leg, placing it upon Legolas' body. The young prince cried out as his hands were crushed, his chest burning in agony. He thought he felt his ribs bend. Still, he did not look away. He would not! "Free yourself, Boromir! The evil that has seduced you will not avail you!" He could say no more, though, before the air rushed uselessly from his form.

Boromir's face was apathetic as he watched Legolas struggle feebly. After a few long minutes, he let up, and the Elf sucked in heaving breaths, coughing, fighting to turn to his side and protect his body. "You have stolen something very dear to me, Legolas."

The Elf groaned, "It was never yours."

Boromir laughed. "Such an assumption! The line of Kings holds claim to that Ring. I only ask that it be returned to those that deserve it!" An insane note crawled into his tone. "This is what you have denied me!"

Legolas narrowed his eyes. "You flatter yourself, Boromir. You ask for a title you do not deserve, for it belongs only to Aragorn!" he shouted.

The cruel hand cuffed him again. Boromir declared furiously, "Aragorn be damned! He is a weakling! Your friendship with him blinds you, Legolas!"

"As your greed does you."

The son of Gondor snapped in fiery ire and raised his hand to strike the Elf once more. This time, though, he hesitated, his face screwed tight with conflicting emotions. Legolas swallowed blood in his mouth as he regarded the other, confusion dissipating for the faintest of hope. Could the evil veil be lifting? "Let it go…" he implored softly, holding Boromir's gaze despite the blackness threatening upon his own, praying to find familiarity in its fathomless depths. "Let it go and return to yourself, son of Gondor!"

Then blackness snapped back, and he was once again shoved to the ground, white filling his vision with the pain of the slap. He lay there then, fighting against the aches of his body, struggling to ward away the inviting blackness.

"Such a loyal Elf," Boromir sneered, looming over his captive. His voice held such loathing, such bitterness. "Tell me, Prince of Mirkwood, how can you yet feel such a thing for me?"

Legolas' heart clenched inside. Had he somehow seen that as well? "I feel nothing but contempt for you, Boromir. You have betrayed us all!" he declared, forcing bravado into his voice.

The man chuckled. "Lying does not become you, Legolas. You faltered before. During that skirmish, all eyes were turned. No greater opportunity for escape could have presented itself. Yet you chose to remain." Cold fear clenched the Elf, and he averted his eyes. How could he be so bare, so obvious? Boromir looked down upon the fearful Elf. Though his prisoner's body was taut with anger, the uncomfortable fear bloomed in his blue eyes. The sight fed Boromir's malevolence even further. "You are weak, Legolas, to think the bond we had in the past would be strong enough to quench my desires." He smiled smugly. "It only betrays your fear." Legolas did not answer, panicked that his captor had detected his wavering resolve. "I pity you, son of Thranduil, for you are but a child."

Sudden indignant anger boiled in Legolas' blood at the hurtful insult. "I am no more a child," he hissed spitefully, "than you are a king!" He knew what would come for such a retort, but he did not regret the words.

The counter was swift and rancorous. With a howl of absolute fury, Boromir kicked the Elf directly into his already bruised ribs. Legolas felt the bones break with an icy pain that shot through his body, and he screamed. Boromir spat upon him, though he lay in a winded daze of intense agony. "Saruman shall make short work of you, Legolas Greenleaf. Your clever words then will not protect you!"

Legolas could hardly hear over the shrill ringing that had invaded his mind, but the words still sliced into his heart. Boromir stood. "We move! The Elf shall not be carried! He walks every step! Beat him if he should slow!" The Orcs shouted in gleeful anticipation. "Gag him as well, for cowards do not deserve to speak," the man hissed, glaring upon the helpless Elf at his feet as though Legolas' sharp comments had marred him. "To Isengard!"

A great, euphoric roar went through the army. Legolas felt the first of his hopes wither.

* * *

Time passed slowly for the lone captive of Saruman's army. Minutes stretched to hours and then hours changed into long days, and each step became more of a struggle than the last. The terrain was rough and unfamiliar. Keeping the unnatural pace of the troops took all his strength, and his body was wrought with exhaustion. Had he not been hindered by both his bound arms and his injuries, the strange ground would have made little difference. As it was, though, his steps wavered with uncertainty often, and this was only met with a vicious strike to his head or his back. The Orcs were not kind to his situation, and they reveled in watching a hobbled Elf stumble.

When they blissfully let him be, he could let his mind wander from the pain of his body and his heart. Though his strife was always near him, he could ignore him with thoughts of better times. He tried not to dwell much upon his friends, for with their memory came worry. He prayed they were well. Aragorn, he knew, would protect them. Still, he found little consolation among the incessant concerns within him. Often times he imagined Mirkwood, and it brought him solace. The grand tree in the middle of one alcove stood strong in his mind's eye, at times the imagining so vivid he thought he could smell its soft, leafy scent, feel its old bark beneath his fingertips and the embrace of its leaves as he rested aloft in its branches. He had loved that tree since his childhood. Its spirit had been a constant companion, a friend that never wavered. Many times he had returned to the grove to visit it and sing with it, it as ageless as he. Never would he part with its soul. It was one of the many things that tied him so tightly to Middle Earth.

Oh, how he longed to sing! To lift his voice to sky and let his spirit escape the black mud sucking him down! But he dared not, for the song of the Elves was a torturous sound for the Orcs, and they would surely punish him for it. Instead he thought the lyrics, imagined the clear melodies, and wished for salvation. At least this was enough to distract him from the growing shadow upon his heart. With each step, he was dragged closer to Isengard. With each breath, he was inevitably counting away his freedom.

The days shed meaning as he lost track of them, and his yearnings for his home grew painful. He had not parted with his father on the best of terms. Of late, Thranduil's Elvish narcissism had grown unbearable. His father was a good king and a fair ruler, but he was too aged and too easily swayed by drink. Times were changing upon Middle Earth, and no longer could the Elves of Mirkwood hide behind ancient prejudices and arrogance. Contemporary mindsets were regarded as sinful as heresy in the House of Thranduil, which did not bode well with its youngest son. Legolas had inherited his mother's patience, as well as her wisdom regarding the "lesser races". Where his older brothers embraced their father's perspectives, he wanted to understand Dwarves and Men. In his eyes, all creatures of Middle Earth from Elf to ant were equal and splendid in their diversity. His mother, at least, had been supportive of this until her death at the hands of Orc raiders centuries prior. The first divisions between Legolas and his brothers and father had been laid, and it only festered with unspoken aggravations and unresolved tensions for hundreds of years as the youngest son of Thranduil came into adulthood. But it was his steadfast friendship with Aragorn had served to finally drive the last brick into the wall between father and son. Arwen had sympathized with him. She too had come to value the companionship of men in a way that was considered "unbecoming" and "impudent" by Elvish kind. The estrangement between himself and his family had blossomed into a stronger connection with her. Now he longed for her simple words of advice and clear laughter. Her sisterly affection had often eased his troubled soul.

He ached with worry for Aragorn. How Arwen would suffer if her love was lost! After the fateful council meeting, he had only been able to share but a few words with the eldest daughter of Elrond. She was steadfast in her support of Aragorn's decision to aid the Fellowship, yet he could see the distress in her eyes. Legolas had volunteered to help destroy the Ring out of duty to Middle Earth, to his race, to his family, and to himself. Yet then his decision adopted another, special purpose, and he promised her that he would let no harm come to Aragorn. The relief in her clear, blue eyes had been gratitude enough. He cursed himself angrily now. Little good he would do his dear friend as such. Would this too become another vow he would break? Another weakness?

When a cold rain came, his spirits tumbled. His bones ached, and his hurts, although they were healing, cried anew. For days, it rained, drenching the land in an icy sundering. He trudged with his head bowed, defeated. He missed his father and feared the angry words they had shared before he had left Mirkwood for Rivendell bearing the fated message would be the last. His love for Arwen ached in his depressed heart, and he loathed the pain his failure would cause her. He feared that Aragorn would fall, shattering a promise made long ago in play that they would never abandon the other in peril. Horrible images of the Fellowship's demise stampeded through his distraught mind, of Gimli murdered, of Merry and Pippin slaughtered in a pool of blood and Frodo taken by the evil of the Ring… and poor Sam! Such a coward had he been to leave the small, terrified creature alone to carry the horrible burden of the Ring! Until then, he had not doubted that Sam would find his way back to the others and restore the Ring to Frodo. But what if he had not? It had been folly to think that a creature as small as a Hobbit could navigate unfamiliar terrain and track the Fellowship while avoiding legions of bloodthirsty Orcs! Certainly he had sent Sam to his death!

He tried to convince himself that these were only nightmares borne from pain, exhaustion, and delirium, but logic seemed a feeble force compared to their potency.

The Orcs came for their entertainment when the army did halt for a brief repose, denying Legolas the rest he so sorely needed. Their beatings left him gasping and bruised, though he refused to satisfy their cruel hunger with screams. A few days after leaving Amon Hen, they grew frustrated with their prisoner's resilience. A shaman of sorts concocted a vile potion of weeds and herbs, and by holding the Elf's nose shut and pulling open his jaw, they forced him to drink it. What ensued then was a horrible torture to his mind and his body. His vision blurred and filled with apparitions and hallucinations that tormented and frightened him. The meager meals of bread and water they had given him he vomited, sick with nausea and fever. So strong was the toxin that even when his stomach was empty he still shook in great, dry heaves that strained his broken ribs and pained lungs. This went on for days, the Orcs taking great joy in seeing an Elf of high stature so utterly ill. He shook in chills and burned in fever, yet they would not let him rest, content to pollute his body with their heinous torments and poison his mind with demonic dreams.

Yet this they ceased at Boromir's will, for the man had grown concerned at the Elf's pallor and lifeless eyes. The man had ignored his captive for the most part during the journey, paying little attention when the trussed and gagged young prince was brutalized. His interest now seemed purely selfish. Had Legolas been of his senses, he would have fumed at the humiliation. As it was he only gratefully took the few hours of sleep afforded him and the water offered to his dehydrated body. He wondered if he would ever now escape the nausea constantly constricting his throat.

They were moving again not long after, departing the dense woods and entering the plains. Legolas recognized the path now and grew crestfallen. He banished his agitation, though, for he knew he would need all his strength to face what lay ahead. Each step was agony. One foot in front of the other. He was so tired, but he could not let his guard down now. Thoughts of escape desperately filtered through his mind, but he dismissed them before they could rouse his hopes. It would only be futile; so weak from the sickness and his wounds old and new, he would not get far if he could somehow free himself. Attempting it would be folly. His resolution faltered. As much as he now hated it, he had to accept this fate. He had no choice.

Still, when he spotted the black tower of Isengard climbing into the endless gray skies, it took all his will not to turn and run. A great stench filled his nostrils, and the nausea rose again to dizzying levels. Trees burning. His heart felt scraped raw in pain for their loss and anger. The sight before him caused his soul to quake in fury and horror. The once massive forests of Isengard were gone, wasted, reduced to a blackened land of hard stone and reeking smoke. He wanted to scream. Only a scarce few times prior had he ever visited the land of the Istari, where the wisest of wizards gathered. It had been a place of beauty and silent strength, ancient trees lining gardens and paths like quiet guardians. That was all now gone, ruined by Saruman's treachery and raped by Sauron's evil.

The army was descending down the hills into the decimated valley like a horde of ants. Legolas stood at its crest a moment, aghast at the extent of the destruction, before the Orc guarding him smacked him hard across the back of his head and shoved him forward. Still, time enough had passed for the Elf to note the solitary figure dressed in the purest of whites atop the great needle of a tower. Massive waves of abominable power radiated from the pinnacle.

Legolas shuddered as he felt the gaze of the ever-watchful Eye burn into his heart.

Saruman had found him.

* * *

Night had descended upon Lórien. The shadows had come with their quiet serenity, laying a blanket upon the forest. Above the stars twinkled innocently, as though they were somehow oblivious to troubles elsewhere. The denizens of Lórien as well slumbered, ignorant of danger and of threat. This night to them was like none other, and they slept in perpetual bliss, among the trees and flowers and sweet winds of their home where evil could not penetrate. The cry of distant agony fell on deaf ears. All save one.

Galadriel, the Lady of the Golden Wood, could not find peace. Sleep would not come to her this night, for the warning in her heart chased away serenity. Throughout much of the day she had sensed this unsettling tiding, but it had remained intangible and incomprehensible, irking her yet availing her with no answers. Now, as Lórien slept, she pondered. Many times before she had felt foul premonitions, for the Eye of Sauron had seen much throughout Middle Earth, and joined with it by the curse of her own ring, she had witnessed its evil. In the days since passing her trial in the witness of Frodo Baggins the menace of the Eye had released her into harmony. Yet now the veiled threat returned. It was a great, unsettling feeling of dread, unpronounced yet strikingly powerful. During the day it had grown from an incessant needling to a prominent whisper. Now she could no longer cast it aside. She must understand.

Thus on quick feet, while her kingdom peaceably slumbered, she descended the grassy steps to the small alcove. Lórien was still under the canopy of night, the trees silent in their song. Water trickled quietly, and she quickly made her way to the stream. Swiftly, she drew clear water into the silver pitcher. Then she turned and hastily poured the liquid into the silver bowl upon the stone pedestal. As the water tumbled down to fill it, the whispers in her mind grew to a harsh scream, and she dropped the vessel.

The mirror drew her attention, and she looked.

A great fire spread from the base of the bowl and scorched her eyes. As it faded she saw many things. The Fellowship, shattered, lost. Isildur's heir prone in a puddle of his blood. The small creatures screaming. The great keening of a hawk as it soared down over a massive black field of Mordor, and upon this plain the stain of the blood of a thousand Elves. Men, slaughtering her fair kin with wicked weapons, bearing the ancient flags of Minas Tirith. Rivendell overrun with invaders, its denizens fleeing as what remained of its soldiers rallied in a last defense. Mirkwood ablaze, the kingdom of the Silvan Elves scorched, the bodies of those unable to escape burning amongst the trees. Lórien gone, her own captives of the men that ravaged their woods. Then she saw the white city, the great pale tower of Minas Tirith jutting against the fiery skies with vengeful power. It stood stark against the black of the acrid smoke. Orcs racing like insects from Mordor and from Isengard, stampeding to the battlements of men with screams of evil bloodlust. A great horrible shadow spreading from the east.

_What is to come._

Sorrow brought tears to her eyes, and she felt the pain of one imprisoned. It was so real, so acute, that her heart ached in misery. Hands bound. Blood. Fear. Anger. There, like a bright light among a sea of wretched shadow, an Elf. She saw his face, saw his eyes, saw through his eyes. A menace approaching, a twisted wisdom dressed in the purest of white.

Guilt brought pain to her heart, and she knew the shame of one corrupted. This was hidden, the last emotions of a noble heart crushed by a vile invasion of evil. The betrayal of the Fellowship. An endless struggle, in which the valorous man was waning. She feared he would submit finally to the will of Sauron. That would seal their fate.

Fear brought shivers to her soul, and she saw the terror of one alone. Walking onward, bearing a burden not meant to be his, fighting a terrible battle without comfort of companionship. The ache of loss. He did not know where to go, or how to get there. Teetering on the edge of exhaustion.

Anger brought tension to her limbs, and she understood the dissonance of one lost. In the woods, tracking. Racing to make sense of the chaos that had become of his control. The others looking to him for strength. Finding none. An exiled king shamed by his brother. She felt his pain, knew his guilt, comprehended his heart. The Ring. The Ring was gone.

_What is._

They had been strong, bound together by common fate. The Elf, the Dwarf, and the two men, standing shoulder to shoulder as they protected their wards. The great Istar, free from the shadow that now claimed him. The four little ones, their hearts greater than all, for they willingly had accepted a duty that was more deserved of greater creatures. Hardships they had faced together, and grown stronger in trust. Two thousand years prior. The strength of men faltered upon the black rocks of Mount Doom. This then would be their legacy. The future of all Middle Earth, resting upon the shoulders of nine walkers set out from Rivendell. Their courage had become the courage of all.

_What was and what had been._

The images raced through her mind. The great horrible shadow took form from black and evil. Sauron. The Eye filled her, burned her, buried her.

And she could look no more.

Galadriel ripped her eyes away with a gasp. The world slammed back down upon her, and for a moment she stood there in denial, shaking. The sense of her body returned to her, the weight of white gown upon her slender form, the feel of the breeze tickling her hair, the sweet aroma of Lórien, the grass beneath her toes. The stars winked from above, but no longer would they watch in ignorance. She stood, trembling, breathing heavily in fear. Finally she gained the courage to turn back to mirror.

The water was now as it once had been, clear and cool, serene. She watched numbly as it reflected only the limbs stretching above and the light of the celestial bodies. Galadriel closed her eyes, but that could not stop the terrifying scenes from replaying sadistically. This nightmare now would forever torment her! She must not allow it to come to pass!

Now she ran, her long hair and gown whipping behind her. Her mind was racing to make sense of what she had witnessed, her feet directing her of their own instinct. Quickly she returned to her room.

She was not surprised to see Celeborn had already risen, obviously perceiving her distress. "What has happened?" he asked quietly, his ancient eyes clear and concerned.

"Quickly," Galadriel said, her voice soft but urgent, "summon Haldir and our fastest riders!"

Celeborn regarded her only momentarily before stepping quickly from the room to carry out her requests. His trust of her intuition was absolute. Mindlessly she waited. What did this mean? The one from Gondor had betrayed his allies obviously, but that alone could not account for such suffering! The One Ring had been hidden from her gaze. She could not discern whether it was in the hands of evil. The possibility in and of itself was disconcerting. Oh, what foul twist of events had led the Fellowship to this sad state!

She knew not the time it took for her kinsmen to arrive. Her feet had carried her to an antechamber. Celeborn returned to her side, his knowing face firm. Through their bond only did she know his confusion and he her fear.

Haldir knelt before them both. "My Lady and Lord," he said, a bit winded, more than likely from excitement than his sudden wakening. Beside him were two other archers of Lórien, slender young elves named Orophin and Rúmil, the latter brother to Haldir. Both knelt as well, silent and perhaps a bit unnerved.

Galadriel lowered her eyes. "Black times are to come to us," she declared quietly and carefully, "if in these tasks I am to give to you each you are not successful." The young Elves before her did not waver with the foreboding of which she spoke. They were the best of Lórien, the strongest fighters, the keenest archers, the bravest and most loyal. She was confident that if failure fell to them, it would not be of their making. "Orophin, you must ride hard to Rivendell. Inform Lord Elrond that the deceit of men is nigh."

Orophin's eyes narrowed as though in confusion. "Men? Men of Rohan? Of Gondor?" he asked incredulously.

Galadriel looked at him sharply. "I know not. I fear both. Bear this message: he must send warriors, as many as he can spare, to guard his borders. Speak of this to no one but him."

The young blond Elf nodded and bowed. "So you will it, my Lady, it shall be."

She turned to Rúmil. "You travel to the Kingdom of Mirkwood. To King Thranduil speak the same warning. However, where Rivendell's army dwindles, Mirkwood's still supports many. Tell him the battle which will decide the course of Middle Earth shall be fought in the land of Men, and his forces shall be needed." Galadriel hesitated, and the horrors of what they witnessed distressed her anew. "He may already be well aware of this, but I cannot in good conscience keep such a tiding from him if not. His youngest has been taken by the enemy."

Rúmil glanced at his brother. The offspring of the House of Thranduil not often graced the woods of Lórien, but only recently had they become acquainted with Legolas when the Fellowship of the Ring had rested in their home in the wake of losing Gandalf the Grey. To think that an Elf of such breeding had fallen into the hands of evil for the sake of Men and Dwarves obviously disgusted them, but they wisely chose not to speak. The younger Elf turned back to his Lady. "I understand. I will not fail."

Galadriel nodded solemnly. "Then go. I place my trust upon you."

They quickly departed. The sounds of quick paces and shouted orders grew distant. Galadriel closed her eyes again to ward away the nightmare, struggling to compose herself. "Haldir, to you I give the most important task, for oft you have shown yourself most worthy of such a duty."

The archer bowed his head respectfully, but his brown eyes were bright with pride and valor. "Then I will not rest until I see it done. Tell me, My Lady, how might I serve the will of the Golden Wood?"

"You are to seek out the Fellowship. The son of Denethor has been turned to shadow by the One Ring, and because of it the greed of men once again holds the fate of Middle Earth in the balance. Once you find Aragorn, son of Arathorn, who we call Hope, you must ensure that he travels to Minas Tirith and secures the allegiance of the kingdoms of men before evil can lay its vile grasp. Do you understand?"

Haldir lifted his head and met her gaze. "Yes," he spoke simply.

"You cannot fail. You know neither fear nor exhaustion. You must do this, and upon convincing him as such, you must aid him in any way you can. I expect no less of you, Haldir of the Golden Wood."

The Elf nodded curtly. "I take my leave then, My Lady," he declared.

Galadriel closed her eyes again then, listening as the young warrior departed. A great battle was coming. A great time of fear. Though she tried, she could not run from the warning now. It would beat in her heart until the threat was defeated.

Celeborn had sensed her turmoil. He said quietly, "We will do all we can."

She hoped it would be enough.


	5. Bound to Darkness

He was trapped, lost, drowning in a great black sea of suffering. Shadow had fallen over him, sucking him down into an endless abyss of torture and turmoil. He wondered how low he might sink. Guilt swarmed within him, stamping out his will and filling what remained of his heart with dread. Where his soul still lived, where he had been able to maintain a bit of himself in smothering sin, he burned in silent anguish. How could he have been reduced to this? Made to kneel before black lords in guilty submission? Such a vile weakness! It was as though he was trapped inside a cell, and only the echoes answered his cries for help. A treacherous punishment if any, for the bars that bound him inside were sadly of his own making.

Whatever reasons that had once driven him had faded, leaving nothing but an undeniable murk of anger and shame. He could not rationalize what had happened. In fact, he could do nothing, for the power of his own lust still claimed his body though his heart cried for relief. But for the pride of his family and his race, he doubted he at all was worthy of being alive. Men faltered. Men were weak. His blood had betrayed him. He screamed against the dark swallowing him whole, but his desires ignored his valor, and he could not break from the spell that had defeated him.

So now he walked, trudging amongst the Orcs he now called brethren, leading the army of Uruk-hai back to its master. The land around them was desolated, scorched by fire and hatred. It was as though all life had fled from the violated area, leaving nothing but a foul breeding ground for evil. Everywhere, painted upon dark rocks and branded into wood and soil, was the white hand that adorned the armor of the Uruk-hai, the mark of Saruman's power. The air stank of blood and sweat and smoke. Part of him reveled in the smell, for he knew below them in a great cavern flames melted metal into sword and scorched frailty into power. This place had been borne from the same desires that strengthened him. But for the tears of his conscience, he would wholly embrace it.

Ahead the great army of Uruk-hai parted, clearing his line of sight, and the tall, black tower of Isengard reached to the sky. His eyes traveled it, impressed by both its screaming force and formidable height. The stronghold of evil was indeed intimidating. He had had no idea that Saruman's forces had grown so numerous and his reach so advanced. Undoubtedly, the Istar would find the lost Ring.

From the dark portal descended a tall man in white. He stepped on light feet, his skin as pallid as his robes, as he walked down the stairs that led to the tower. When he neared, his features became apparent. Ancient eyes seemed to see all at once from beneath arched brows. The face was narrow and long, spotted with age, the nose hooked. A great gray beard of fine hair cascaded down upon his dress, and locks of equal color and texture drooped upon thin shoulders. He carried a massive, long staff that clanked against the stone when he stepped. He appeared a weakling, his form that of a being once potent but now wrought and gnarled with age. Yet horrendous power undulated from him in an aura that was both striking and fearful.

Saruman approached with the might of gods in his step. When he was but a mere foot away, Boromir dropped to one knee. "My Lord," he whispered, shaken by the shear energy. It at once energized and disgusted him. The man took the brittle hand offered to him and laid a soft kiss upon it.

The old wizard grinned seriously. "Son of Denethor," he said simply, eyeing Boromir nonchalantly as he rose again. Boromir was terrified of him, though he tried to remain stoic. Beneath his sick corruption, his soul quaked for the fate of his wretched body. "I am not pleased that the Ring has fallen into obscurity."

His heart thundered. "We did all we could, my Lord, but the Elf hid his treachery well. We could not force its location from him." The excuse felt lame, but he could not retract words once spoken. His resolve wavered as he saw anger flash through the black eyes of the wizard.

"I trust your… friendship with him did not cloud your judgment."

He swallowed awkwardly. "Nay, my Lord. I would see the Elf dead if it would return the Ring to you." The words burned within him.

"Bring him forth, then."

A shout went back through the Orcs as they scrambled to do as their master ordered, sending the command to the rear where their prisoner was held. Boromir averted his eyes. A great throbbing from within him cracked his tenacity. He would ignore it! For the sake of Gondor, he must have the Ring!

What sad logic!

He turned to Saruman. Since touching the Ring, since feeling its awesome power, he had been hungering for it. "What would you have me do, oh Lord, if the Elf yet refuses to speak?" he asked eagerly, wishing childishly that Saruman might present a panacea for his predicament.

Saruman's gaze was blank, unfocussed, as though in contemplation. Then he spoke, his deep voice rumbling with unspeakable menace. "I will see that he does, son of Denethor. The Eye is restless. It hunts for a new bearer of the Ring, for the halfling that once possessed it is no longer of importance. If the Elf holds no clue in our quest, I will have him suffer then slain. He is but a small matter. The Ring will return to its Master, of that rest assured."

The words were but a small comfort. Behind them came a great scuff of feet. The lines of Uruk-hai parted, the beasts stamping their feet in merry cheer, as two of their comrades dragged their catch forward by the hair.

Boromir averted his eyes. In the passing days since the Ring had left his touch, he found it increasingly difficult to look upon Legolas. It was disconcerting and unsettling to see the wounds he had himself inflicted upon the Elf. He tried to deny the guilt that was beginning to plague him, but with each moment it grew more insistent. The blood lust for the Ring had kept it at bay, but that was fading.

Legolas was made to kneel before Saruman, his legs kicked from beneath him. One of the Uruk-hai slapped him when he vainly struggled. The claw tangled in his hair snapped his head up, forcing his gaze to Saruman. A vicious memory came to Boromir's mind of a similar occurrence, of his friend held to the ground in front of him, of his taunts and vicious words, of Legolas' spite clear in blue eyes. But that fled him by will of his goals, and he blinked away the disheartening sight.

Saruman smiled. It was but a small gesture, but its implications sent shivers racing up and down the spine of the man from Gondor. The wizard's elegant hand, each finger tipped by clear, white nails, came to grip the chin of the Elf before him. A long finger slipped the gag from the captive's mouth. "Legolas, youngest son of Thranduil," he declared, "and Prince of Mirkwood. A great misfortune has befallen you, young Elf." The wizard seemed to draw power from the terror slowly manifesting in the Elf's wide eyes. "I offer this one chance to you as a gift. Speak the truth now, and I shall spare you. Lie, and I shall turn your body and mind asunder."

In Legolas' glare gleamed defiance. Boromir idly wondered how he could still have strength. "I fear not for myself, Saruman. Nor do I mourn my fate, for it is my burden to bear, and I will bravely face it. An Elf is not easily broken," he hissed coldly.

Saruman's eyes narrowed. "Choose your words carefully, little one, for you will regret tempting me."

Legolas retorted, "I will regret nothing, and I would gladly embrace death if it will keep the Ring safe!"

His words were met with a solemn smile. "You are indeed a foolish child if you think I would so easily allow you to die." The Elf's eyes were hard and furious, yet Boromir saw the terror creeping about his gaze. "Now spend a moment here, my dear Elf, in contemplation. Do not hastily condemn yourself. The Fellowship is dead. What use is there in forfeiting your life for a cause already passed?"

Legolas obviously tried to remain fervent in his opposition, but the color drained further from his pale cheeks. A great many things shone in the Elf's bright eyes: fear, sorrow, loss, confusion. Boromir was both delighted and devastated at the sight. In that instant, the proud and noble Elf did appear nothing more than a frightened child. "You lie, Saruman," he snapped.

"An arrogant assumption," the wizard declared, clearly pleased that he had so easily dented his prisoner's resolve.

"No," Legolas said, his stoic composure immediately returning, "a logical conclusion, for you have many reasons to deceive me, and I have no cause to believe you."

The wizard gave an amused chuckle. "You are indeed clever, son of Thranduil, and a credit to your kind. However, that will not avail you, for I know your fear. I know death terrifies you. I can see it in your eyes." Again the Elf grew pale. Boromir almost thought he heard the prince draw a shaking, short breath. "I ask you now: where is the One Ring?"

The question hung on the still air. Upon it was a clear threat. It rang of torture, of agony and anguish, of the fading of beauty and the twisting of a soul. The throbbing within Boromir rose to a nearly unbearable point, and he felt himself quiver inside. The lust and the greed were suddenly small grievances, and he ached for his friend, for his comrade with whom he had bravely faced the perils of Moria, for his brother with whom he had mourned the loss of Gandalf. The toil and hardship of the Fellowship had once bound them together! How could he have traded that for a loyalty to power and the darkness with which it came? Sweat beaded upon his temples. He had to do something! "Answer truthfully, Legolas." The words left his mouth of their own volition, and he was surprised to find his tone alien and weak. The Elf looked to him, dismay and anger drawing his face tight. A connection was made then, unexpected but potent nonetheless. Bright blue eyes locked upon deep brown.

And the hold on his dying soul shattered. The black lifted, the shadow snapped back, and the vile curse retreated. The bars that held him in that awful cell disappeared. His heart shuddered in release and then bled in disgrace.

Tears filled his eyes. " _Please._ Do not sacrifice yourself for their sake!" He fell to his knees before the Elf and grabbed his bare shoulders firmly, desperate to prevent these horrible tidings. Legolas refused to look upon him, perhaps from disgust, perhaps from fear. Boromir bit his lower lip, and felt whatever strength that had driven him in his quest for the Ring snatched away by his consuming shame. "My friend," he whispered softly, "do not do this!"

They were silent a moment. Then Legolas met his eyes. There was no hint of forgiveness, no sign of the loyalty Boromir had days before insulted, no trace of the Elf's carefree spirit that had so often broke into song or laughter. "You are no friend of mine."

It was sealed in horrible finality. The past was closed, and mistakes could not be so simply remedied. Boromir felt his body quiver, though his mind seemed disconnected, and he slowly released the Elf. Shocked, the man stood once more. Tears burned in his eyes as his vile deeds rotted his heart.

Saruman seemed thoroughly intrigued. "It seems, son of Denethor, that the Elf wishes to die alone. A pitiful, noble creature. What say you, Legolas Greenleaf of Mirkwood? Is this the fate you wish?"

Then came a horrible silence. Legolas looked down, ending the moment and leaving Boromir wretchedly hurting. The Elf sighed gently, like the breeze caressing the leaves of the wood, quiet Elvish words whispered on the breath. Though Boromir could not understand them, he knew what they meant. A prayer for the will to endure. "I will not be party to your evil, Saruman," Legolas finnally said quietly, coldly. Then his glare returned to the wizard, hardened by his rage. "Find it yourself!"

The wizard's face remained impassive, even though at his side Boromir shook with anguish. "So be it," Saruman lowly announced. He looked to the Orcs at the Elf's side. "Take this wretch down into the depths of Orthanc, where the sun and fresh air cannot penetrate, where he will be neither healed nor heartened. Spill his blood, my Uruk-hai, for his beauty disgusts me. His valor will not long last him."

Smiling, the monsters rallied in elation at their master's orders. The one behind Legolas hauled him to his feet roughly. They prodded the forlorn Elf with their weapons, drawing fresh blood, as they forced him to march.

Legolas did not struggle, his eyes closed and his head bowed. The wind swept by over the barren, gray plain and picked up his hair in a soft caress, blowing it across his face. The faintest glimmer of wetness upon the Elf's cheek glistened in the sun as the prisoner was led to the dungeon. Boromir shuddered as they passed and lowered his own gaze. He felt what Legolas could not speak. His heart screamed that he do something, anything, to aid Legolas now, before the chance forever disappeared. But he could not. For all his strength and pride, he could not!

There was no excuse now, and there never would be. This was the final betrayal. To finally regain himself and then let his friend walk alone to what certainly would be his death. Such a heinous injustice! He dug his fingers into his palm until he drew blood. The loathing and shame choked him. He was simply terrified of what he had done and of what would be done to him if he should move unwisely. What was worse, though, was the indescribable fear clenching his heart and breath.

He was horrified of himself.

Legolas' pale blond hair and soft glow disappeared, swallowed by the black of Orthanc, the tower devouring it. Boromir stared, defeated, too distraught to think or breathe. What else could he do?

Saruman did not glance upon him as he stepped to the entrance, followed by a retinue of Uruk-hai. "Your weakness becomes you, son of Denethor," he said simply, "for it was the fickleness of men that allowed the threat of Sauron to persist. You will also permit it to triumph."

Boromir stared at the stone beneath his muddied boots. So many cracks marred its smooth surface, but there was still sturdy rock beneath it. No matter the stampede of feet, or the erosion of rain and wind, forever would it with stand. "I have no more business with you, Saruman," he said quietly. His rage gave him conviction. "I search for the Ring only. I serve your evil no longer!"

Saruman stopped upon one of the stone steps. He did not face the madness of the son of Gondor, though, his eyes ahead. "Take your leave then, coward. You have done enough to destroy the good will of Middle Earth this day."

Fury burned through Boromir, and his sword exited his sheath with a loud ring. "Foul demon! You would so easily let an enemy draw upon you! It is you who is the coward!"

Saruman continued to walk. The Uruk-hai shouted in malicious anger, begging that they be allowed to contend with this meager threat to the great wizard. He brushed them aside. "You are but a leaf in the wind," the wizard explained quietly. "You turn with the breeze. The Ring does not release those called to its service. Reclaim your nobility if you wish, son of Denethor, though it be a fruitless endeavor. You will again kneel before your Master, and we shall be allies once more." Then the wizard entered his stronghold.

The wind whipped around him, and Boromir was gasping in hatred. He lowered his sword after a moment. The words echoed in his mind, burning into his heart, and shattering his tenuous peace. Would this be his vex, his punishment for his seduction? Was this the plight destined for a man who, despite his faults, wanted nothing more than to protect his people? Was this the curse of his beloved Ring?

Letting loose a tormented howl, he turned and ran.

* * *

The plains of Rohan stretched far and wide, and Aragorn grew weary of the monotonous terrain. Each field of long grass was much like the last. Each small hill swelling in the soil was only one more to pass in this arduous trek. The land was ideal for tracking, for the bent grasses, though they swayed with the wind, spoke much of previous travelers. Great plots of the golden weeds were crushed, flattened by the fall of many large feet. For the Orc army to cut across the fields so carelessly meant they were sacrificing secrecy for speed. The thought disturbed the heir of Isildur. If they did possess the One Ring, the Fellowship would never be able to catch them.

Yet he spoke none of this concern, or of the grief staunching his concentration. Days had passed since the disastrous fight at Amon Hen, and the crushing sorrow over the loss of their companions had not lifted from their shoulders. When the rain had come the sunset prior, it had only amplified their melancholy, and for hours no one had had the courage to speak. The sad state of affairs stomped out their chatter. No longer were tales traded or lyrics sung. Smiles were a rare and misplaced sight upon sallow and crestfallen faces. Aragorn feared divulging worries over the situation would only compound matters, so he kept the foul knowledge to himself. It festered in his heart, pushing him to move wordlessly faster, to drive the others harder. He could see the toll this strenuous pace had taken upon them, but he would not slow down. He would not give up.

The Hobbits lagged behind him, their steps uncertain and staggering. Every so often Merry and Pippin would attempt to lighten the mood with idle palaver, regaling some tale from the Shire they found of interest or engaging in outrageous gossip. Though their efforts were appreciated, they were often met with silence and apologetic glances. Frodo suffered the worst of them all. The blow to his had upset him more than he let on, which concerned Aragorn. He constantly tipped and wavered upon his feet, as though dizzy, and tired easily. Most of the food they convinced him to eat he later vomited, and his face was often flushed with fever. He hardly slept. He never spoke. Worse, though, was the consuming despair that haunted his eyes. It was as though the will to fight had left the courageous creature, leaving but a husk of a former self, a shade that was fading into sorrow. Aragorn dreaded the black that was calling Frodo. He feared he would not be able to remove the forlorn shadow from the Hobbit's face, or restore hope to a broken heart.

Gimli trudged with silent anger. Every line of the stout warrior's body was hard with barely contained rage, and his hands were forever clenched about the hilt of his axe. He seemed almost volatile, his eyes bright with murder, as he walked in the rear. He too had voiced little during the grueling journey, his face ruddy and his gaze distant. Aragorn was glad for his silent strength. He knew Gimli would now never falter until his vengeance was complete.

This was the state of what remained of the Fellowship. It was a tired, sad condition that begged for relief and for rest. The grasslands seemed vast and infinite, and though the trail was clear, the strength to follow it was fleeting.

Twilight came down, but great gray clouds hid the stars. Aragorn watched the puffy bodies dubiously, praying they would not again drench them with a cold rain. Such treatment would do nothing beneficial for the ailing Frodo. A cool breeze chased itself around the plains, sending the grasses rolling in waves. It brought with it a faint smell of distant things that distressed Aragorn, a rank stench of burning forest and death. It could only be coming from Isengard.

There was a tug upon his pants leg, and he looked down. Merry stood there, his Elven cloak drawn tight around himself against the slight chill. "Strider, we should stop," the small creature implored, looking up at him with a silent plea in his eyes. "Frodo needs to rest."

Aragorn looked back at that, where Pippin led a drooping and weak Frodo through the tall grasses. The young Took met his gaze with worried eyes. Then Aragorn glanced ahead, indecision filling him. A brief repose would not cause him to lose the trail. Ahead there was a copse of small trees. It would provide protection enough. "We will take respite ahead in that grove." He grasped Merry's shoulder. "Stopping here in the open is far too dangerous, my friend."

Merry smiled his thanks and then rushed back to his cousin. They shared some sort of jovial banter that lightened the ranger's glum heart before they began to walk again.

But a few minutes passed before they reached the trees. The sun was setting, retracting its warm caress from the world, leaving chilly air that was made colder by the shade. They settled inside it, upon the ground, which was littered in dry needles from the pines surrounding them. Pippin helped Frodo sit against a tree and then quickly drew blankets from his pack to cover the shivering Hobbit. "There, Frodo. I'll fix you something to eat."

Frodo did not answer, closing his eyes and swallowing heavily. Very worried, Aragorn knelt beside the sick Hobbit and laid a palm across his brow. Curly hair was plastered to his flushed face. "The fever has returned," the ranger announced sadly. He thought a moment and then reached into his own bags. His supply of medicinal herbs was dwindling; he would need to keep a watchful eye for some during the remainder of their journey.

The king went about preparing a broth while Merry and Pippin began dinner from the meager food supplies that remained. Gimli stood beside them, leaning upon the head of his shining axe. "The army has put great distance between themselves and us, Aragorn," the Dwarf commented sadly. "I know little of tracking, but the wind and time seemed to have weathered their footsteps."

Aragorn drew a slow breath as he poured fresh water from a flash into a blackened pot. Then he cleared the pine needles from the dry dirt. Merry appeared with rocks to separate a space for the fire. "True, friend," he admitted at last, wishing fervently to deny the apparent. "But we will yet catch them."

Gimli chose not to speak further, and Aragorn was grateful. The truth was achingly clear. The Orcs were swift, undoubtedly rushing their prize to their master. Bearing an injured companion had slowed the Fellowship. He could not blame poor Frodo in this; the small creature had suffered so for the burden he had bravely taken upon himself. Still, Aragorn alone could traverse the path far quicker and perhaps catch that which they restlessly pursued. Perhaps he could return the Ring to where it belonged. To think as such, though, was only folly, for he could never abandon his friends in such a dangerous territory.

A few moments later the fire was crackling warmly, crunching upon some dry kindling, and the water was boiling. He dropped the herbs he had crushed into the liquid. Pippin asked, breaking the heavy silence that had descended, "How far are we from them?"

The army had likely reached Isengard by now, but he could not bear to tell them. "A day or so maybe. We will come upon Isengard by nightfall tomorrow if we keep this pace."

Merry sat close to Frodo, one arm draped over the other's shoulder for support. His young eyes were alive as the fire gleamed in them with confused fear and apprehension. "What'll we do then, Aragorn?" he asked innocently.

The herbs had cooked enough, and this concoction he poured into a tin, dented cup. He hesitated, trying to find something to say that would not dissuade the others from their hopes. What could they do against an army of Orcs in the stronghold of the enemy? If Ring had already come onto Saruman, would fighting there be but a futile endeavor? He wished answers would appear to him instead of more infernal questions!

Honesty was the only choice left to him by his own guilt and anxiety. "I know not, Merry." He blew gently on the steaming broth to cool it. At seeing the Hobbit's fearful expression and tentative glances towards his kinsman, he gave a small smile. "I will think of something. I promise you."

That seemed to appease their concerns, for Merry returned his grin and then smiled at Pippin. Aragorn crouched again at Frodo's side. He patted the other's waxen cheek gently. "Frodo?" he prodded softly. When that failed to rouse the delirious Hobbit, he spoke louder. "Come, my friend, wake for a moment to drink this." Blue eyes fluttered open, glazed with fever and despair. Aragorn smiled gently, compassionately squeezing the small hands. "It will soothe your pain and lower your fever."

The Hobbit blinked a few times. Then the ground began to rumble gently. Pine needles jumped about like small, terrified souls, skittering as though they were tiny insects. Aragorn watched them dumbfounded a moment, and then a great thunder filled his ears. It grew louder and louder, crashing over the plains. He glanced about, his mind racing, and met Gimli's stony eyes. The great cacophony intensified until he could recognize it.

Hooves, beating with great speed upon the fields.

"Horses!" he hissed in sudden but controlled panicked. "Pippin, stomp out the fire! We must flee!" He stood and handed Merry the broth as Pippin scrambled do as the ranger ordered.

"Let the beasts come," Gimli hissed, "for it is cowardly to retreat before the fight begins!"

Aragorn ignored the taunt. To stay now would be only folly! Frodo was no condition for a skirmish. "Gimli, take Frodo and go. I will stay to distract them." Merry and Pippin turned suddenly and regarded him with wide, frightened, disbelieving eyes. "You two run as well."

Gimli shook his head vehemently. "Nay, Aragorn, that-"

"Do as I say!" the ranger barked sharply. The frightened Hobbits then scattered, grabbing their paraphernalia and stuffing it haphazardly into their packs. Gimli muttered something inaudible as he knelt and pulled Frodo to his feet.

The Hobbit shook his head. "Don't leave us, Aragorn," he moaned in absolute terror. Aragorn's heart shuddered, and he drew his sword.

"Take him. Fly!"

But it was too late. The snorts of horses grew loud upon the air. From the shadows came the mounts, stampeding powerfully through the maze of the grove to surround them. They were magnificent steeds, stallions of white, black, and chestnut, with powerful, elegant gaits and tall statures. Atop them sat armored men, their silver plate and chain shining and glimmering despite the fading daylight. Swords were drawn and bows were taut. Aragorn glanced about, panic rising, his heart thundering. They were completely enclosed, and these appeared extraordinarily skilled soldiers, for their mounts were extremely well-trained. Eyes glinted threateningly.

"You have trespassed upon the lands of the King of the Mark," one declared. He was seated upon a great stallion, and his physique did match that of his beast. Great, tangled blond hair flowed from beneath a gilded helmet. "Drop your weapon!"

Aragorn released a slow breath. He had heard of this brigade of men. They were famous riders, skilled with training their horses, who patrolled the plains of Rohan in the name of the king. Slowly he set his bright and dangerous sword upon the ground.

The man atop the horse narrowed his eyes. "State your business, stranger, and be brief," he ordered.

"We bring no threat to your lands. I am called Strider, and these are my companions," he said simply, keeping all impatience and aggression from his tone. "We only seek to travel through these plains, but a sickness has come to my friend here, and we have tarried."

The other glanced at Aragorn, then to Gimli. His narrowed eyes seemed to pierce the group. Frodo swallowed uncomfortably. "Curious company you keep, stranger," he remarked suspiciously. Then the mounted warrior looked to the ranger once more. The hard gaze softened. "We mean you no ill will, but a black threat has but days ago violated our borders."

Aragorn felt tense muscles begin to relax. "Aye, we have encountered it. It is what we pursue, for we believe the foul creatures have killed one of our comrades, and possibly taken captive another." He felt Gimli stiffen.

The man nodded and then dismounted gracefully. The horse snorted, and the soldier patted its neck brotherly. "Black news is this! However, I cannot allow you to continue this quest, for usury is afoot in these times. You must come with us."

Aragorn tensed in anger and dismay. The Ring would surely fall into evil if they were to abandon it now! "If I were to provide you with a token of good faith, friend, surely you may make an exception," he said quickly.

The man gave a grave smile. "I do not doubt your word is true, but it is not my place to make exceptions in the laws of my king." He gestured to them. "You must seek permission from him."

 _There is not the time for this!_ Aragorn's mind screamed, but his face remained impassive. "How might I do such?" he questioned, trying to control his temper and his patience.

Nodding curtly, the soldier explained, "I will lead you. You seem a man of good stock, so I will behest you an audience. I am Éomer of Rohan; I hold the king's ear." He gestured to them. "In the meantime, we shall care for your ill friend as well. Let us make haste, for demons crawl these woods with the coming of night."

 _Éomer of Rohan, leader of the Riders of Rohan._ Aragorn eyed the other warily, but saw no other choice. He nodded to Gimli, the Dwarf tense with distrust. Still, wordlessly he submitted to Aragorn's leadership, and he handed the unconscious Frodo to one rider. Aragorn closed his eyes briefly to steady himself. This was unfortunate indeed. Although he was glad to find aid that Frodo sorely needed in this unforgiving land, they could not afford to linger now.

As he climbed to the horse behind Éomer, Aragorn cursed this foul turn of things. Pain clenched his heart for the loss of Legolas. The sharp grief that had stabbed at him for days suddenly reached a horrible climax, and as they turned from the glade, tears stung his eyes. A vow they had made long ago would further be broken, and he cursed himself to allowing such a terrible event to come to pass. If his dear friend still lived, every moment spent here would augment the Elf's suffering. Aragorn prayed silently that the Orcs had killed Legolas, for that was vastly preferable to an endless time of torture and cruelty. A loving Elf-brother, his closest friend, laid to ruin because of his own pride! Had he but listened to warnings the blond archer had spoken, the Fellowship might have been spared. As it was, he could not amend his oversight, and his crimes would forever torment him. Legolas would suffer for them, die for them. He damned himself for his betrayal!

And poor Sam. Loyal and brave Sam. If he too was among the Orcs, they would surely kill him upon reaching Isengard. The last of his hopes in finding their lost comrades was stomped out by the pounding hooves of racing horses. Resting here would bring him no closer to fulfilling his vow to Frodo.

The very fate of them all rested upon his success, and the One Ring would not wait to exert its evil.


	6. Hope Remains

Mordor was indeed a black place, filled with scourges not easily imagined from such a quiet hamlet as the Shire. Jagged, sharp rocks tore at Sam's feet as he walked, but it was but a small discomfort. Great dark mountains stretched infinitely, meshing with dirty, smoky clouds and fiery skies. The air was hot and rank, scorching his lungs each time he inhaled, making breathing a sore trial. No life seemed to survive here, as though the environment was unendurable and impermeable to even the smallest spot of moss. Sam detested this wretched land and longed for the soft, friendly forests and rolling fields of Hobbiton, where the sky always seemed the brightest blue and the air was fresh. He idly wondered how any creature, even those as foul and frightening as Orcs, might find the barren and rocky plains hospitable.

The small Hobbit rounded a hill of gray slate, creeping slowly about the warm, protective rock. As of yet, he believed his presence in the outskirts of this foul land had gone unnoticed, and the thought brought him confidence. He pressed himself against the rock and looked beyond. His heart sank. Here again he had wished that something might break the crushing, evil monotony of his path. Before him lay nothing but a vast wasteland of lifeless rock and acrid smoke, and his hope faded. He supposed it had been only wistful to expect the unlikely, but in the silence of his ever-present doubt and fear, he found that dream a spot of light in the lonely shadows of his heart, and upon crossing every crest and ridge, he let himself imagine again that this step would be the last. Sighing now, his shoulders slumping, Sam continued upon his way.

Time passed slowly for the solitary walker, and his thoughts were poor company for they were riddled with fears, guilt, and skepticism. A few hours before he decided to calculate the amount of time he thought had passed since reaching the eastern shore of Anduin, but a rough estimate of perhaps a week was the best with which his lethargic mind could supply him. It seemed infinitely longer, and he was tired. Before the horrible Ring had shattered the peace of their lives, he had never traveled far from the Shire, and certainly he had never ventured far into the world alone. Ruefully he realized how very much he had changed. Being alone for so long before had been a terrifying prospect to which he had grown accustomed. Upon no one else could he rely, but that undeniable truth brought him strength. Only he could determine the course of his feet. Only his wit and stealth protected him.

Though he was unsure of the way, he knew the slopes of Mount Doom rose far in the east. After passing through the fetid sumps of Emyn Muil and miraculously descending its high and perilous bluffs, he had stood on a great precipice overlooking the barren lands ahead. There in the distance the clouds glowed a bloody red, and he had supposed that was the fires of Mount Doom scorching the sky. Perhaps with a bit of luck, he might happen upon it. Sam narrowed his eyes as he walked then. Nay, luck was not a dependable ally. Fortune turned her favor too easily; she was a cunning and fickle witch that could give and then take, that could bless as effortlessly as curse, and in her wake nothing but regret and pity wallowed. He would make his own destiny. It was his to mold, to shape, and to embrace. Cradling this idea deep inside him as well brought him courage to do what was required of him.

And so he walked. The stone was hard beneath his feet, but thick skin protected his bones, and his gait was steady. He tried to avoid wide, open areas as he remembered the dark forces employed a great many unlikely spies, and being spotted by hawk or beast would do him no good. Strider had taught the Hobbits a great many things about traveling stealthily, and here he put those useful lessons to work. As well, Legolas had once instructed Merry, Pippin, and him in the art of treading lightly to leave faint tracks and conserve energy. Even Boromir's training with the short sword he kept fresh, running over the various attacks, feints, and counters in his mind, in case the need should arise to fight.

He shuddered at the thought of his comrades. Boromir's betrayal still burned his heart with anger and his eyes with tears. The man had been such a good friend, and a valiant defender. Sam had had only the deepest respect for him. However, the brutality of what Boromir had done to Legolas before his very eyes had shredded his admiration. He prayed the others would save Legolas. Even though he knew the Elf's logic had been sound when he had parted company with him, Sam ached inside when he reconsidered it. When the dire depression of his surroundings became overwhelming, his mind inevitably wandered to the plight to which he had left his friends. Guilt compounded his sorrow, and pity begot much the same. It often took all his strength to pull himself from the distressing murk. Even still, he had to concentrate upon the vow he had made to himself to find strength. He knew Frodo would have done the same.

Sam missed Frodo terribly. No matter how he twisted, turned, or tried to rationalize the horrid events that had transpired, he could not lighten the dread in his heart for his lost friend. For so long he and Frodo had been close, inseparable companions in work and play, brothers in laughter and sorrow. To now be apart, and the events that had led to their division had been beyond vicious, troubled him greatly. He could not help but wonder if ever again he would be graced by Frodo's gentle smile or easing voice and gaze.

He was forced to digress, though, because mourning too deeply for the past distracted him from the present, and he would need all his wits to survive in this wretched place. Once long ago his father had told him that he thought too much. A rare occurrence it was to have his mind blank! Still, he could not change what he was. He was Samwise Gamgee, a meek and shy Hobbit that had never before left his home but had found the will to continue this quest in the face of great adversity. No matter what became of him, he would always be that, and that made him proud. This brought him solace.

Mordor was calling the Ring, even as he walked along its borders. It was a peculiar feeling, carrying this small trinket of great power into the land of its making. To him it spoke not of evil or of power; its tale was a sad story of illogical temptation and immorality. He did not understand why the Ring was so horrible, only that this at least would always be the truth. Wearing it about his neck made his skin crawl with apprehension. It was a constant threat, a silent scream of danger that never ceased its howl, and he wished nothing more than to simply be done with it. Now at least he could understand the burden that Frodo had worn upon his fearful face so many times during their arduous journey. The Ring's touch was unnerving indeed. It seemed to revel in the stench and heat of the air. He grew more fearful with each step that he would not be able to keep it hidden. After all, how could he? The awesome instrument of domination wanted nothing more than to be found by the eyes of this horrid land that constantly sought it!

Once again he stifled his thoughts. Agonizing himself over events that he could neither control nor predict would accomplish little more than further riling his resolve, and he could not afford to be distressed. Shrugging deeper into his coat, holding his pack tight about his shoulders, he trudged onward.

An hour or so later he came upon a concealing furrow of sorts between two large hills, and he decided to rest for a brief luncheon. Quietly he rummaged through his bag for the apple he knew to be buried within it. Knowing that the vegetation of Mordor would be sparse, he had collected all the food he could before leaving the woods along the Anduin and entering Emyn Muil. Aragorn had explained what fruits and roots were good to eat, and what would upset his stomach. The teachings had seemed frivolous at the time, but now he was eternally grateful. He would have starved by now if not for them.

He sat and munched upon the red fruit, and looked to the sky. The black clouds would not part and let much light through, and he glared angrily at them. How he wished to feel the sun! At least the apple tasted wonderful, its tangy sweetness a welcomed reminder of home. He savored each bite and chewed slowly and gratefully. Even a distressed Hobbit could not deny the pleasure of his palate, after all.

Suddenly came a soft sound, like the brushing of cloth against legs, and he looked to his side. The rock he was nestled beside obscured most of his view, and he could only see the dirt around its corner. The noise came again, this time louder and more pronounced. Footsteps. Sam felt his body wash cold with terror, and the apple fell suddenly from trembling, weak fingers. Somebody was coming!

Sam swallowed heavily and closed his eyes. To regain his composure was a struggle, for his strength had suddenly become fleeting. His entire body shook. What was he to do? How could they have found him? The footsteps grew louder, closer, and Sam winced, forcing his shaking body to still and his rushed breath to quiet. Fear made him dizzy, and his heart was booming.

The approaching menace stopped. It was but a few feet away now. When it continued, it would pass the rock and undoubtedly see him! He must flee!

"I know you hide," came a low voice.

Panic snapped inside him, and he moved without thinking. With a cry of terror and anger, he ripped around, clumsily pulling his weapon. His thick fingers accidentally caught the sheath, pulling the entire case from his belt, and he charged forward with his eyes squeezed shut. The blunt edge of the sheath met cloth and then bone, and there was a gasp of pain. "Confound it, Samwise Gamgee!"

That voice!

Sam opened his eyes and skittered back, his sword falling from his shaking hands. There before him stood Gandalf. The old wizard's ancient and wrinkled face was tight in a grimace of discomfort as he hopped unceremoniously, one large hand rubbing his shin where Sam's attack had hit. His great mane of gray hair was as tangled as ever, and his thick bushy beard seemed more streaked with white than Sam last remembered. His tall stature, which spoke of fierce pride, power, and wisdom, seemed even all the more awe-inspiring, for now he bore robes of the purest white, like freshly laid snow. His garb seemed starkly misplaced in the black of the land that surrounded them.

Something shattered inside Sam, and he lurched forward in wonderment and overwhelming relief. "Oh, Gandalf!" he cried joyously, tears streaming down his dirty cheeks, as he buried himself into the ancient wizard.

Gandalf smiled fatherly as the small creature tumbled into his embrace, kneeling to catch him. The Istar's arms were warm and smelled of old books and sweet pipe smoke. The wizard hugged him tightly. "It is a blessing to see you again, little Hobbit," the old man said, his voice a deep rumble from within his chest.

Great waves of release exited Sam in sobs. Such a blessing to have found a friendly face in this hellish world! No longer now would he struggle alone! His heart quaked in reprieve as he clung to Gandalf. For quite a while he was content in this simple contact, releasing the pain and fear he had bottled inside him for the sake of his newfound duty. When he tired, he pulled back. "But Mister Gandalf," he said, sniffling, wiping his nose with his sleeve, "we saw you die! The balrog pulled you into shadow!"

The Istar bade him a small grin, his eyes twinkling with characteristic mirth. "I have lived a very long time, my dear Sam, and faced many perils! Alas, the matter of my survival is but a trivial thing now, for great dissonance has apparently come to the Fellowship."

Sam nodded sadly. "It has," he said softly, looking to the wizard with imploring eyes, "though it wasn't any fault of Mister Frodo's! Boromir turned, I think, and brought strife to us all! When I was last with them, Strider was gone. I don't know what happened to the Master Dwarf or Merry and Pippin, for I went to find Mister Frodo. I failed in that, but I came upon the camp of the Orcs that had attacked us. They had captured Legolas, but he fought and brought the Ring from Boromir to me. Now I carry it." Sam's hand came over his chest, where the small trinket was hidden. "This was the last I saw of them all. Tell me, are they well?"

Gandalf's face grew solemn, and that was enough to slash the feeble hopes Sam still treasured. "I do not know," he admitted gravely, "for I came to the borders of Mordor at the behest of logic. This is where the Fellowship would be, had it not split. It worries me that only you remain." The wizard sighed slowly, the breath long and great. Sam looked to him, wishing that he would hold some comfort to ease his heart. "This is dark news indeed."

Gandalf seemed greatly troubled, and that only served to distress Sam more. The Hobbit leaned back upon his heels and sighed solemnly. "What are we to do, Gandalf?" he asked gently, tentatively.

The wizard's eyes were lost in thought and for a long moment he did not speak, leaving Sam to his own anxieties. Then his gaze grew focused. "We cannot turn back," he stated simply, although he sounded like he despised the finality of his words. "There is but one choice: we must press on." Sam released a long breath and swallowed the pain in his throat. Gandalf stood slowly. "Yes, this we must do. My heart goes out to the others, and I pray they will find a path to follow us!"

Sam rose to his feet. "I worry, Gandalf, for Mister Frodo, and for Master Legolas." He looked down to hide his tears. "I broke my promise to you, sir, and I'm sorry," he admitted shamefully after a moment, guilt plaguing him.

The wizard's eyes were upon distant horizons. A large, old hand with kind, strong fingers clasped his shoulder reassuringly. "Have faith, my friend. Though separated, the Fellowship remains strong. Bonds forged in peril and danger are not easily broken." Gandalf gave him a gentle grin and steadied him with a proud gaze. "You have done well, Sam. Even here your heart guards Frodo, and you have neither broken your promise nor my trust. It is your strength now that carries our quest, and for your bravery I am grateful."

The words gave him solace. This was the truth. The gratitude which with Gandalf obliged him warmed his heart, chasing away the cold grip of despair, and for the first time in a great while he smiled.

The wizard grunted and looked ahead. "Come. The road is long and hard, but no longer shall you walk it alone." Then he stepped forward.

Sam released a cleansing breath, and then followed.

* * *

Mirkwood was a dark place when night came to it, for the dense canopy of the forest hid the light of the moon. As woods grew thick with shadow, often they came alive with fireflies and wisps. It truly was a beautiful sight as the forest made magic of its own accord, and the trees regaled their songs to the stars. Here, where the Silvan Elves made their home, the forest was safe haven, and the creatures lived in a quiet and loving harmony. Many leagues south were the borders of the kingdom of Thranduil, and those forests were quite a different place. There no light penetrated, and a dangerous gloom forever clung to the limbs of the trees. Beasts and terrors that the light of the sun never uncovered roamed those woods, making their murky roads not often traveled. A tenuous peace existed between these forests, the one that basked in the light and the other that dwelled in the darkness, and not often did Elf and beast cross paths.

This night, though, the wisps did not shed their ethereal light and creatures of the forest were silent. It was still, forlorn, and fearful. The silence was disheartening and melancholic. A dramatic mourning had come over it, and the serenity of the emptiness was false, for the trees were tense in despair and anger for the turmoil of a child lost to them.

The palace of the royal family was dark this night as well. Great corridors and rooms were blackened, candles left unlit, and were idle and vacant. The huge home was still in the dark. There was no talk, no song. Servants tread on silent feet, milling about chores and tasks lethargically. They did not speak of the ominous shadow that had descended upon the House of Thranduil.

In the great dining hall sat the middle sons of Mirkwood. Upon a long, polished oak table rested two candles. Their light was meager, doing little to chase back the blackness, and their wicks were all but depleted. The great table had many times in the past seen joyous feasts and celebrations. Many Elves had sat around it during times of war and times of peace, chatting, debating, eating. It seemed frustrated and lonely now, as if in these dark times a history of use and care meant nothing.

A dinner had been left to cool, wine left untouched in goblets. The two Elf princes sat opposite each other near the table's head, their king's great chair vacant. Outside the servants murmured their concern, for the twins of Thranduil, Aratadarion and Astaldogald, had spent nearly an hour in a tense silence, waiting for their father to descend from his private chambers and their older brother to return from his rounds.

Around them a thick void had festered for quite some time. Words seemed misplaced in the emptiness. The two often engaged in light-hearted banter, for closeness in the womb had extended for thousands of years. They were quite a bit younger than the first born, Vardaithil, and also nearly two millennium older the youngest brother, Legolas. This great difference in ages of Thranduil's children had served more to naturally divide them than unite them. Only the twins remained inseparable. They were each other's compliment, as many a visitor had noted. Astaldogald was of a lighter coloring than Aratadarion, his hair a light brown or a dirty blond depending on the state of the sun. This he had inherited from their late mother, but the resemblance truly ended there. He bore the fiery features of his father and older brother, a square chin, high cheekbones, and finely etched eyes and brow bringing power and arrogance to his face. Aratadarion was truly a blend of both parents, for he was raven-haired and his skin of dark tones, yet his face was softer, with gentle, wide, inquisitive eyes and full lips. This he bore in similarity to Legolas, though he lacked the innocent glow and fair beauty that so graced his little brother.

In mind as well they contradicted. They were almost like two halves of the same heart. Astaldogald was a spitfire, stubborn and a bit conceited. Both Thranduil and Vardaithil were the same, though their temper had been cooled by centuries of experience in both court and battle. This twin was quick to anger and slow to cool. He had little patience or tolerance for foolery or stupidity. Though his heart was noble, his tongue could be harsh. When the little Legolas had incurred his older brother's wrath, the child had often been left in tears by Astaldogald's sarcastic insults. Opinionated and vociferous, he was seldom silent when occasion bade him to be. His twin, however, was meek and timid. Aratadarion rarely spoke his mind or concerned himself with the world beyond studying and singing. His beauty was soft and silent. He went where his twin led him, content to let Astaldogald deal with matters of state and war. He was not as skilled as his brother in the art of fighting, and knew little about ruling a kingdom. As quiet and compassionate as their mother had been, he was rarely angered.

So they sat in silence, one restless and the other melancholy. The unspoken thought hung over them like a plume of tension. They had both felt their brother's anguish as acutely as their father had. The horrible tiding draped over the entire kingdom, stamping out merriment, and for the first time since the death of their mother, the House of Thranduil was void of the song of the trees.

"Vardaithil must have been detained," Astaldogald grumbled finally. His tight voice seemed so loud, shattering the precarious silence. "How long has it been?"

Aratadarion released a long breath, his great, thick locks of dark hair still as it cascaded down his narrow shoulders. "Perhaps an hour. I know not."

"Father would do well to ease his heart and take his supper," the other remarked ruefully.

"He is sick with worry. We all are. Do not fault him for loving his son," Aratadarion commented quietly, seeing the fire smolder in his brother's gray eyes.

Astaldogald released a curt breath and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. Slender fingers reached forward and snatched a bit of bread from the platter long ago set before him. "I fault no one," he said simply, biting into what he had taken, "save Legolas. He has brought great sadness upon our family and our kingdom for his selfish insolence."

Aratadarion was silent a moment, lowering his eyes to the table. He did not share his twin's contempt for their brother. Since Legolas' birth, Thranduil had taken special interest in the babe their mother had named for the trees of Mirkwood. Astaldogald had for centuries before basked in their father's attention, for he was a needy child and Thranduil was happy to oblige his son. When the twins had come of age, it had no longer been proper for Thranduil to dote upon them, and Astaldogald had suffered hard in the years after, for he was neither the first-born heir nor the favored son. Their younger brother's glowing beauty and innocence angered Astaldogald, who had neither and wanted both. Moreover, Legolas was a strange Elf. He could within a breath be calm and serious then suddenly impulsive and brash. He loved Middle Earth with a passion that Aratadarion could hardly begin to understand. The Elf child's name had indeed shaped him. The strange naiveté with which Legolas viewed all things seemed out of place in the experienced House of Thranduil. When their beloved mother had passed, the sons had begun to divide, differences becoming irreconcilable. Legolas sudden interest in places and people beyond Mirkwood had served to make matters worse. Astaldogald's distaste had reached its pinnacle maybe ten years prior, when Legolas had become close to the man of the House of Elrond, Estel. Even now his twin's harsh and vicious condemnation of Legolas rang in Aratadarion's ears. He was a perceptive Elf, a gift from his mother, and he knew why their fair little brother had taken so easily to the king of men. They were both different from their people. They were both in an exile of sorts. But Astaldogald could not understand this, and the peace between Legolas and his brothers had shattered. Thranduil had done nothing, particularly taken with his wine and wealth at the time. And the tension had festered like an open wound.

Aratadarion could not fault his twin though. Astaldogald loved all things Elvish. Traditions he kept dear to his heart, and with such a mindset came heavy prejudices. These Thranduil and Vardaithil had encouraged, but they had become too engrossed with higher matters to see the bigotry they had instilled in Astaldogald. His twin cherished Elvish song, Elvish literature, and Elvish thought. The Calling to the Grey Havens was a beautiful gift. Men and Dwarves and Hobbits were lesser beasts, with silly and trite problems that could plague only foolish mortals. He frowned upon them as he frowned upon Legolas' compassion for them.

Aratadarion did not want to anger his brother, so he said nothing, only frowned as Astaldogald chewed darkly upon his bread. Enough derision existed between the sons of Thranduil; he had no wish to create more.

The great, oak doors of the dining chamber suddenly opened with a heavy moan and a creak. Through the portal, held ajar by a maid, stepped Vardaithil. Both the twins rose at his entrance. Their brother looked weary, his face long with shadow and exhaustion, as he nodded to them each. His hair was dark, held in place by braids, and its deep brown served to make his face whiter. He was a regal Elf, his stature forever tall with pride and elegance. Never did he misplace a word or movement, and his face was at once ageless and wise. He had received the lion's share of their father's dark handsome strength. He would one day be king, and it showed his confident speech and powerful gait. "He has not yet come down?" Vardaithil inquired, glancing between his siblings.

"Nay, Vardaithil, and the hour grows late," Astaldogald declared, settling his hard gaze upon his brother.

Vardaithil hesitated a moment, his blue eyes distant in thought. Aratadarion watched him contemplate, and felt his brother's exhaustion. In the months before Legolas had left, the youngest and oldest of Thranduil's sons had together spent many an hour guarding the southern borders against the suddenly revived anger of roaming Orcs. It was a job with which they were all well acquainted. As princes, it was their sworn duty to protect the kingdom at all costs, and when the dark forces beyond their borders rallied, they were often called to lead their army into a skirmish. Since Legolas' departure, this responsibility had fallen to Vardaithil alone, and this added stress had worn the energy from his face and hands. Aratadarion was glad, though, for his brother's silent endurance brought them all strength in these dark times.

Finally Vardaithil moved to his seat. "We shall wait then," he said simply, sitting gracefully. At Astaldogald's tiring eyes, his expression hardened. "Mind yourself, my brother." Astaldogald scowled at the reprimand but said nothing, instead lowering his eyes shamefully to the last bit of crust in his hands.

They sat in silence once more, thoughts elsewhere, each alone in private reverie of their own creation. Most painful was the absence of Legolas. Even when he had been traveling, the ghost of his presence lurked about their home, bringing light and joy. Now its disappearance was acutely painful, the chair where he often sat during their meals beside Aratadarion powerfully empty. For the silence of their home! What had become of their little brother?

After a long moment, Astaldogald's eyes regained a hard glint. "Father should have never sent him to Rivendell," he declared. His voice held a great many things: anger, concern, spite. A painful scene reentered Aratadarion's over-active mind. The boom of his twin's voice in this very room had been sharp when word had returned via messenger from Rivendell that Legolas had left with his man friend, a Dwarf, a soldier from Gondor, and four Hobbits on a crazy quest to destroy the One Ring. To Astaldogald this action on the part of their brother had been the ultimate folly. Neither his father nor Vardaithil seemed willing to defend Legolas' decision against Astaldogald's vicious contempt, sufficing it only to refuse to send riders to recall the young, rebellious prince. In Astaldogald's critical eyes, Legolas' choice had been selfish. The Fellowship had been only an opportunity to escape this house, which he so haughtily disliked. To venture out with men and a filthy Dwarf, even after their father's repeated warnings concerning the vile mining race, on a futile journey to destroy the bane of Isildur, to correct a wrong made even before his birth, seemed a foul decision made in a heated moment of egotistical anger. Aratadarion had to admit that even he did not completely see the nobility in the actions of Legolas. His brother's mind, so swept by loyalty to lesser creatures, worked in ways he could not fathom.

Still, he sensed what was coming and cringed inwardly. The disaster that had come of Legolas' rash departure would be an ideal way for his twin to renew his argument and restore his beaten pride. Aratadarion detested the way his brothers bickered!

"The ways of men have corrupted the House of Thranduil," Astaldogald murmured, shaking his head disdainfully.

Vardaithil released a slow breath. The tension crackled like lightning. "Do not broach this subject again, Astaldogald," he warned quietly. "I have not the strength for it now. Impetuous as he may be, Legolas is of age to make decisions for himself."

But Astaldogald would not be so easily appeased. "Nay, brother, he is too easily swayed by his love for the lesser kinds! He has disgraced our father, our kingdom, and abandoned us now in a time of need! And now his brash actions have left him peril! This I will not overlook!"

Vardaithil's eyes flashed threateningly. "You will because I demand it," he ordered lowly, an unspoken warning in his tight tone. "What has happened to our brother is no more his fault than it was Father's for laying upon him the task of bearing the message of Sméagol's escape to Rivendell. I trust you do not seek to judge the wise ways of our King!"

"I seek only to express my anger," Astaldogald shouted, rising from his chair with the scrape of wooden legs against a stone floor, "that Legolas has caused such toil in our home! Had Father reprimanded him in the error of his ways long ago, we might have prevented this disgrace!"

Vardaithil now rose as well, and his voice echoed through the dining chamber. "Step down, brother, and I will dismiss your insubordination as nothing more than thoughtless words spoken in distress!"

Aratadarion winced as he observed his siblings stare each other down. Oh, but for the pain inside him! How very many times before had this same conflict arise between kin! He could see the jealousy burn in his twin's gaze, and great war was raged behind the heat of his eyes: a battle of decorum and pride. As it often did, his own arrogance seemingly tainted his logic. "Legolas deserves what has befallen him. At least now his fear and humiliation will teach him to hold his wanton desires!"

Anger blazed in the oldest son's glare as he opened his mouth to counter, but he was interrupted before he could speak. "Stop this at once!" came a disgusted and irritated order. Aratadarion rose immediately in reverence.

There in the doorway stood Thranduil. The great king, older than ages, glared upon his children with disappointed scorn. He was a mighty creature, his shoulders broad and his form tall. His face was lined, betraying all he had experienced in his expansive life. His long flaxen hair was held back from his high, flawless brow by an ornate crown. Expensive leggings composed of the richest thread hugged his body, and his tunic was as well lavish, beset with gold and the bright colors of his kingdom. He was an imposing force, demanding respect and admiration. Few Elves dared to stand in opposition to him, for his wealth, stature, and power was greatly intimidating. Though his influence had waned a bit in the last few centuries in the wake of his recent love of wine and wealth, Thranduil still struck fear into many, and demanded the highest regard.

His obstinate jaw was firmly set in anger, and the harsh hardness of his eyes caused his sons to bow their heads. "I will not tolerate such insolence!" The bite of the words caused Astaldogald to stiffen and look away in shame. For a moment, no one spoke. Thranduil stepped inside and headed to his ornate chair at the head of the dinner table. He closed his eyes and released a long breath. "My meditations are wrought with fear. I cannot find peace, and I will not have you bring more discord into my House." The admittance disheartened his sons.

Vardaithil regarded his father with concern. In this, the plight of his youngest, Thranduil's toil and exhaustion were evident upon his narrow face in a rare show of weakness. "Father, what would you have us do?" he asked, reaching forward to grasp the king's arm.

Thranduil closed his eyes a moment, as if searching for inner strength. Seldom had his children seen him so shaken. Finally the king looked upon them again. "Legolas' distress is great," he declared quietly, and the worry dripped from his weary tone. "I fear for him."

"Father, I-"

"Shush!" Thranduil bellowed at Astaldogald, startling Aratadarion and causing the young Elf to jump in his seat. Venom burned like bright flames in the king's glare. "Remember yourself, child! You will not speak ill of Legolas, for he is your brother, and  _my_  son! In this House, kin protects kin! You betray him with your hatred!"

Astaldogald trembled, but this time would not relent to his twin's dismay. "I only ache for you, my Lord!" he declared, hurt glistening in his eyes.

"That may be so, my son, but it is not your place to judge the wisdom of your elders. Lord Elrond bereft Legolas to aid the Fellowship of the Ring. This is not yours to question, so hold your contempt," his father admonished. Slowly the king regained himself, his words echoing in the hallow chamber. For a long moment, no one spoke, shaken with strong emotion. Then again the king spoke to his princes. "I have made a decision," he announced slowly. He raised his eyes and gazed upon the twins, their strength imploring his children. "My youngest son writhes in agony, and this we cannot ignore." He turned to his heir. "Vardaithil, I cannot afford to lose your command at my borders, though Legolas would most benefit from your strength." Astaldogald grew tense, and the crust broke into crumbs in his fist. Aratadarion looked to his twin, but his gaze was not acknowledged. "Thus I dispatch this task to you, my twins. Ride hard to the south, to Lothlórien. Our kin of the Golden Wood will undoubtedly aid you. Deliver your brother from the darkness that now imprisons him and bring him home."

Spite burned in Astaldogald's gaze. "You would sacrifice two for the sake of one?" he hissed, his voice seething.

Thranduil's own anger rivaled his rash son's. "Nay," he declared lowly, "but neither would I sacrifice one for the sake of your pride. Hold your tongue, Astaldogald, for you make yourself into a jealous wretch with your words." The Elf grimaced then, ashen, and grew silent with quivering shame and rage. Aratadarion felt his father's piercing gaze upon him. "Let your love for him be your strength. A black shadow steals his light and his will; you will fight for him." The orders were clear. Thranduil's face relaxed, and he sighed gently in fear and worry. "I will not have any of my sons pass into the cold night. Now, go. Do not disobey your king, and do not disappoint your father."

A long empty minute stretched on, and all were still with pain. Aratadarion felt his heart grow heavy and afraid. This would be a great task for him. Never before had he surmounted such a quest. He was weak with sword and knife. His eyes were not quick and his reflexes betrayed his slovenly fighting prowess. He on no account had traveled far from the safety of Mirkwood. He quaked in doubt, though he could never deny this duty. How would he do this?

He glanced to Vardaithil, wishing his fair protector to bless him with a reassuring smile. His hope was granted. Relieved, he turned to his twin.

Astaldogald grunted in fury and stalked away. Angry shouting filled the corridors beyond, and the scurrying of terrified footsteps echoed as servants rushed to fulfill the vicious commands of their lord. Aratadarion winced. His father's voice drew his attention. "My fair Aratadarion," he said gently, lovingly. Aratadarion looked to his king, and was heartened by the fatherly affection clear on the ancient Elf's face. "Be well, and care for your brothers. The metal of your heart is your greatest virtue." He drew a breath to steady himself before taking his leave as well. As he did, he felt a resolution that not often graced him fill his heart.  _Be strong, Legolas,_  he thought.  _We are coming for you._


	7. A Path Again Found

Frodo awoke to a gray morning, and the air was chilly and damp. The cold invaded the layers of fur blankets he found covering him, and he slunk deeper into their warmth, closing his eyes against the outside world. For a moment peace returned to him, and he could shun his curiosity and concerns. But the groggy doze was fleeting, and a booming voice suddenly filled his ears. "Frodo," came a familiar tone. Then there was a grim laugh. "Wake now. You've slept too long, and it won't do you much good to miss another meal."

He broke free from sleep permanently this time, and leaned up. His body was stiff and leaden, and his mind felt as though it was stuffed with wool. Though his thoughts were dull, memory slowly mingled with sensation, and he began to wonder. The small room around him was composed of dark stone. A fire burned happily in a hearth on the opposite wall, warding away the chill and shadows. He was in an old, creaky bed, which was flanked by three others. A few other dusty, aged furnishings adorned the area, one of which, a chair, was occupied by a smoking Merry. "Where are we?" Frodo croaked, surprised to find his voice a dry rasp.

Merry offered him a reassuring grin as he stood and handed him a mug of water from the bed stand beside him. "Rohan, I think. The kingdom of the Mark it's called." Merry puffed appreciatively on his pipe while he watched Frodo drink. The water tasted glorious, sweet and cool.

Frodo did not recognize the name. "How long?" he asked, confusion widening his blue eyes.

"You've been sleeping for about a week. Not much has really happened. We've been kept inside since we arrived. These men don't appear to trust Strider much," Merry declared almost apologetically.

"Do they know about us?" Frodo asked, unable to hide the frightened tone in his voice.

"I don't think they do," Merry responded, "and they've been nice enough, only they won't let us go. They're a strange folk. They don't much know about Hobbits. Can you imagine?" The small creature gave a bit of a laugh, though the sound seemed forced and contrived. Frodo grinned feebly. "Then again, they don't recognize Strider either."

"I thought he was their king," Frodo said, his fingers tracing the outline of a bandage wrapped about his brow. Beneath the white cloth, the wound upon his temple was still sore, and he grimaced.

Merry shrugged. "I'm afraid I don't know, Frodo. Strider hasn't told them anything. I don't know what he hopes to gain by his secrecy. We're too close to Isengard, he says, to trust anybody."

 _Isengard._ Shameful guilt returned to Frodo then, and he bowed his head. The last week or so before he had collapsed had not been some grotesque nightmare then, no matter how he had wished it to be so. Instinctively his hand came to his neck, where for months the Ring had hung, hidden by the cover of his clothes and the strength of his heart. Where once its wretched weight had rested there was now nothing but a stark silence and the feel of his own flesh and bone. Sighing softly, he closed his eyes. The violence in Boromir's eyes, the painful power of his grip, again assaulted his senses, and tears burned. How could he have failed? When they had beached the boats upon Amon Hen, the wind had turned cold, and he had felt a gross premonition crawl over his skin, tickling his senses. Boromir's lustful gaze had burned into him. Still, even with this foreboding and Galadriel's warnings, he had not been able to stop the son of Gondor from seizing the Ring. It had been his sole responsibility. The penance for such a crime was beyond any of his worst fears. "The Ring has reached Isengard surely by now," he finally moaned, averting his eyes from Merry.

It was silent aside from the crack and pop of the fire. Then Merry reached forward and grasped his shoulder. "You did the best you could. We all did."

The words were little consolation, but Frodo nodded his thanks, and reached up to take Merry's small hand in his own. He was glad then that he and Sam had accidentally come upon Merry and Pippin so many months ago in Farmer Maggot's fields. Their simplistic faith and unwavering loyalty heartened him.

Merry squeezed his fingers. "Come now, and take some food. The others have been worried about you."

Frodo did not know if he had the strength to face them. Before his sickness and delirium had dulled the pain of their companionship. Now an endless road of suffering and depression loomed before him, and for the first time he doubted he had the will left to travel it. He banished these thoughts, though, for despair would do him no good now.

Shoving the warm blankets aside, he swung his legs gingerly from the bed. The stone was hard, cold, and strong to the touch, and he wriggled his toes. Then he stood, willing his stiff body to obey him. For a moment the run spun sickly and he thought he might fall back into the bed. But Merry gripped his arm to steady him, and he would not face this pain alone. Together they walked from the room.

Outside they descended a dark and dank staircase, torches fastened to the spiraling walls shedding only light enough for them to see each step. Men passed them and cast suspicious glances, which riled Frodo's raw nerves. Merry was steadfast, though, probably accustomed to their distrust and confusion, and led Frodo by the hand deep into the belly of the building. The manor was not overly opulent, but comfortable enough. Rugs warded away the chill of the stone beneath their feet. The cold gray of the morning light did not reach the depths, and fires filled each room they passed with warmth. Finally they reached what seemed to be a guest dining hall. It was a small, sparsely furnished room. A chipped table marked with use and time took up much of the space, stretching from the heavy, double, oaken doors through which they entered to the blackened brick hearth. A hot fire spread orange light.

"Frodo!" Pippin shouted jovially, rising quickly from his chair. The Hobbit smiled gaily and jumped to embrace his friend. Frodo winced as his aching body was wrung in Pippin's tight grasp, but smiled and patted the other warmly. "So good to see you well!"

Merry pulled his cousin from Frodo. "Pippin's missed you, you see!" he said, laughing.

"And I as well, Master Baggins!" Frodo turned at the unmistakable deep, rumbling tone. Gimli rose gracefully from his own seat, grinning widely. "Come, have a scrap of luncheon! These men have a strange palate indeed, but the stew is not bad with a bit of ale!"

Frodo felt color burn into his pale cheeks. "You have already eaten," he said simply, noting the dirty plates and utensils strewn about the table. His stomach still felt a little queasy, though the meal smelled delicious. "So I shouldn't inconvenience you."

Gimli gave a genial laugh. "You have a great heart that inconveniences you more than it does us. Sit and eat. There is little else to do in this dungeon!"

Tenderly Frodo sat beside the Dwarf. Pippin resumed a station across from them with Merry, the latter of which went about ladling the thick, meaty stew into an earthen bowl. This he offered to Frodo with a slice of white bread. Gimli took an empty mug and poured frothy brew into it before setting it before the Hobbit.

Then they sat in silence. Frodo ate slowly, careful to not upset his painfully churning stomach. The stew tasted wonderful, although Gimli's statement about the spices within it was true enough. The ale did compliment its flavor in a unique way, combining the sweetness of the sauce with the sour tang of the drink. Merry nibbled upon a piece of bread, his eyes distant and introspective. Pippin leaned back in his chair, balancing precariously upon its hind legs, as he looked to the fire. Gimli's face had shed its previous delight, now assuming a dark expression of impatient and frustrated anger. He puffed on his pipe, the mass of rusty hair and beard framing his firm face. Frodo shamefully lowered his head for the Dwarf's sorrowful anger, idly stirring the stew around with his fork. His appetite suddenly fled him.

Merry finally spoke. "Where has Strider gone?"

Gimli grunted, sending a plume of sweet pipe smoke to the darkened ceiling. "To speak to that arrogant rider again, I suppose. 'I hold the king's ear. ' Bah! We have been kept prisoner by these men for days and have yet to meet this supposed king." His eyes glowed in the fire. "I fear we are being deceived. The spies of Saruman are cunning and widespread!"

No one responded to Gimli's assertions, for the Dwarf had voiced a concern common to them all. The Riders of Rohan were little more than a blurry memory to Frodo, but anxiety bubbled through him. Aragorn had followed the Orc army to Isengard with such a panicked fury that floundering now seemed out of character. Why would he allow them to be detained? Had their cause proved fruitless? He swallowed the lump in his throat and battled against fresh tears in his eyes.

The doors behind them suddenly opened, and Aragorn stepped through. His face and hands, once covered in grime and dirt, were clean and strong. At seeing Frodo, the man smiled. "My friend, you are well once more!" he declared, stepping forward. Frodo felt his control over his emotions waver as he stumbled from his chair and threw himself into Aragorn's arms. The son of Arathorn smelled of pipe smoke, horses, and the woods. Aragorn embraced him tightly and chuckled. "Your strength has returned!"

Frodo pulled away and grinned weakly. "Only thanks to you," he said quietly.

Aragorn ruffled the curly mop of his hair affectionately before standing. He turned to the rest of the group. In that moment, he seemed tired, his eyes outlined in darkness, his form almost bent in aggravated weariness. "Still we must wait," he declared forlornly, all eyes of the room upon him.

Gimli growled, slamming his raised mug upon the table with a loud bang that resounded off the walls and caused the Hobbits to wince. "Aragorn, this is a vile mistreatment! Simply tell them of your blood, and they'll surely release us to our own business!"

Frodo returned to his former position as Aragorn sat elegantly at the head of the table. The ranger leaned forward, bracing his elbows upon the surface and clasping his hands before his bearded chin. "I wish it was so simple, son of Glóin, but the state of Rohan does not lend itself to trust, and divulging such information might create a volatile situation that we cannot easily escape."

"Do you think they're allied with Isengard?" Pippin asked incredulously.

Shaking his head, Aragorn explained further. "I doubt that. A tension permeates this manor and its soldiers. Although I cannot be sure, I gather a great deal of Théoden's army has ridden west, possibly in pursuit of the Orcs. A great choice faces Rohan's liege, one he cannot make likely. To openly oppose Isengard could be disastrous for the people of this nation. Saruman abuses the lands of Rohan, yet if it rises against him, he will surely punish it. Rather than make this choice, Théoden is content to dawdle." The heir of Isildur sighed. "Until this situation reveals its course, I will not have at Rohan's disposal such potentially damaging information."

Merry sank deep into his chair as he regarded his leader. "What are we to do then?" he inquired.

After a moment, Aragorn sighed. "Bide our time, I suppose. We are safe enough here." Gimli sighed in anger and frustration. The ranger glanced at his companion sympathetically. "Believe that I favor this action no more than you, Master Dwarf, but there is naught else we can do."

They were silent then, each staring darkly into their own thoughts. Food was forgotten, wine and pipe ignored, and a black depression threatened once more. Frodo closed his eyes and felt the exhaustion return. No amount of sleep, he feared, would ever cure him of it. So much was unknown. How could they be expected to choose the right course of action in this confusing maze of uncertainty? His yearning for Gandalf's guidance then became a keening wail. He had felt lost after his old friend had disappeared into the shadows of Moria, but at least then their goals had still been painfully clear. Now, without the Ring and splintered, where should they turn? Was there even any more to be done? If the Ring had reached Isengard, surely the black future revealed to him in Galadriel's mirror would be inevitable. He felt plagued by indecision, and he wished beyond all hope that this plight would simply end his suffering rather than continue to needlessly plague him.

He thought of Sam. Sam never pitied himself or wavered when the situation grew unfathomably dark. For his friend, matters remained ever clear and simple. Gray did not appear between right and wrong, or between good and evil. Defeat or resignation Sam did not consider. Frodo felt ashamed of his own doubt.

There came a rapping at the door. Before any of them could rise, the heavy oak slabs were pushed open. In the portal appeared a soldier, clad in dirty mail. "Strider, Prince Éomer summons you immediately."

Aragorn stood and narrowed his eyes doubtfully. "In what regard?"

"I know not," spoke the man sharply, "only that a few minutes past a strange blond Elf came into our Lord's courtyard asking if you were among the men of Rohan."

 _A strange blond Elf!_ Frodo's heart leapt into his throat in excitement, and he stood suddenly. The unspoken hope mirrored in the others, and Merry and Pippin gasped as they too rose. Gimli was away from the table before his companions could think to move themselves. The soldier's face was angry, and he barred their exit. The Dwarf growled. "This invite was extended to no other, save Strider!"

"Step aside, you fiend! This concerns more than this man alone!" Gimli shouted back, his eyes burning with anger and profound hope. He would clearly not be deterred by any force these men might wield against him.

Aragorn smiled regretfully at the messenger, stepping past Frodo to clasp the roused Dwarf on the shoulder. His grip was a bit restraining. "Forgive my colleague here, sir. You must understand. One of our lost companions was a blond Elf with bright eyes, garbed as an archer. Might this visitor match that description?" The ranger was unable to completely hide the wistful dream in his voice.

Frodo turned his wide eyes to the soldier, his gaze boring into the stocky man. For his own part, their messenger seemed a bit unnerved by the group's yearning stares. "This I know not as well, for I did not see this Elf." He seemed to be considering, glancing about the group suspiciously and making quite a show of his hesitation. Gimli grumbled lowly. Finally, the man spoke again. "If that is the case, I see no error in permitting the others. Keep your Dwarves in check, and they may accompany you. Make haste now, for the prince is called to duty elsewhere."

So taken with anxious wishes, even Gimli failed to bristle at the man's ignorance of the differences between Hobbit and Dwarf, and they bounced after him. The walls, festooned with tapestries, were a blur to Frodo as he followed the group, lingering beside Aragorn. Passing men were ignored as he looked upon the ranger. The man's dark eyes were alive with an energy that had longed seemed lost in grief. Frodo dared to hope. His heart pulsed and he shared a grin with Merry and Pippin, who were silently cheerful, their steps buoyant.

"The prince will join you shortly," said the soldier. When they entered the chamber to which he had led them, however, their hopes crashed with a dreadful bang of the closing door behind them. There indeed stood a blond Elf, but his stature was taller than that of Legolas. His posture was a tad proud, his hair light upon his shoulders and his brow high. He was clad in mellow greens. Frodo recognized him immediately.

"Haldir," Aragorn announced in disbelief, his brow furrowed in confusion. He shook his head, obviously stupefied at the appearance of the archer of Lórien.

The Elf's keen eyes pierced them as they scanned the group. His long face was stern and serious. "It is true, I see," he stated after a moment, his tone despondent. "You have failed and broken." The scrutinizing gaze fell to Frodo. Under his harsh inspection, the Hobbit winced inwardly and bowed his head in sudden shame. Merry and Pippin came closer to him protectively, their own stares leveled at the strange Elf.

Gimli raged, stepping forward and glaring at the other, obviously both vexed by Haldir's words and disappointed that the visitor was not their missing friend. "Hold your tongue, Elf!" he snarled. "You may be kin to Legolas, but you hold none of his grace or eloquence! Feign nobility if you wish, but you are not welcomed here!"

"Think well on your words, Dwarf, for I bring a warning from the Golden Wood, from the wisdom of Lady Galadriel herself," Haldir announced smartly, his glare severe.

"Her words are well received," Gimli countered, "for she is a creature of great valor and beauty. You are hardly worthy of bearing her message."

Haldir's eyes narrowed dangerously, but before the tense situation could escalate further, Aragorn stepped between the conflicting parties. "Please. Stay your anger, friend Gimli, and let us hear what Haldir wishes to say." The ranger then turned to the tall Elf, his face tight with distrust and urgency. "Quickly now, before the men of Rohan return."

Haldir released a slow breath and turned his gaze from the fuming Dwarf. Frodo watched him intently. "The Lady Galadriel has received a premonition. She has sent me to both instruct you in your actions and aid you as you need."

"What has she seen?" Aragorn asked, clearly exasperated.

"Men turning upon Elves. She has witnessed the deceit of the son of Denethor. This we cannot remedy, but the course of events from henceforth shall be of our making. Where is the One Ring?" he asked quickly.

Frodo was overwhelmed by the words, and his thoughts were a blur. Numbly he watched Aragorn's eyes grow tight. The ranger stepped closer to the Elf, and the conversation grew hushed. "I know not," he declared after a moment, his eyes darting. The shame in his tone ached in Frodo's ears. "We can be sure that Boromir stole it from Frodo during the skirmish, but nothing else is evident. We were tracking the Orc army when the Riders of Rohan intercepted us." Desperation lined his next words. "Perhaps the Lady Galadriel saw its location in her visions as well?"

Haldir shook his head, sending the hopes of the others plummeting. "Of this she spoke naught to me," declared the Elf lowly. It discouraged Frodo to see him nervous and worried. It seemed so utterly impossible yet somehow sensible, as if this was only another chapter added to a growing, weird nightmare. Galadriel had known of their plight. She had warned him, after all, and he had still allowed this to happen! Tears escaped his eyes, rolling down his pale cheeks, and he looked away. Was this foul outlook that had come to her his fault? Even more, could she now direct them in somehow preventing it?

Then the Elf spoke once more, and his words brought a weak ray of hope into the dark places of his mourning heart. "Still I must believe the Ring has not yet fallen into evil. If it had, surely she would have told me!"

"She would know such a thing?" inquired Pippin skeptically.

Haldir turned hard eyes to him. "She knows all things, for she too has borne a Ring of Power, and through that she is forever connected to the fiery Eye."

Aragorn grew quiet. Frodo observed him as he stood, tense with this information that had come to him. In his own heart a great storm of anxiety and worry swirled. Before he realized it, he voiced his relentless concerns. "What of Sam? Did she learn of him?"

The Elf archer seemed torn. Reluctantly he answered. "That as well she did not say."

Frodo felt his heart grow cold and his young face fell in dejection. In hindsight he did not know why he had bothered to hope. It was surely folly to harbor such futile feelings! Yet in this he was not alone. "And of Legolas?" asked Aragorn.

Haldir hesitated. This more than any other sign indicated that there indeed was information to reveal. Frodo watched the Elf expectantly, his foolish heart once again pumping silly hopes throughout his small and beaten form. "His fate cannot concern you," Haldir finally declared, his narrow face stanch and dark.

Gimli reared and snapped, "You wicked creature! If there is news to be had then come, let us have it! In this you must be honest, for my heart wracks in toil for our lost friend!"

Turning his gaze back to Haldir, Frodo held his breath. "The Lady of the Wood spoke little of this matter, saying only that he had been taken by the enemy. I know nothing else," Haldir said. "If they have not killed him, they keep him for sport. There is little we can do for him now." The dark veil of despair again descended upon the group. Pippin and Merry glanced sadly at one another before looking to Frodo. A great pit of guilt and shame bubbled inside the young Hobbit. Their weak condoling eyes did little to assuage his pain. "Have some faith," Haldir spoke at last, "for the wise Galadriel sent my brother, Rúmil, riding north to Mirkwood. King Thranduil will surely quickly send aid for his son."

Aragorn did not look terribly relieved by Haldir's words, his eyes dark with sorrow and malice. "The Orc army has already reached Isengard. Whatever forces he might dispatch will be insufficient to contend with Saruman's forces!" he declared hotly. "We must go to him!"

"As I said, son of Arathorn, this cannot concern you!"

The ranger's eyes burned. "You cannot expect me to turn my back on Legolas!"

Haldir's own gaze was piercing. "I expect you to show some logic here. Your friendship with him does grieve me, but the fate of Middle Earth rests upon you now. The One Ring is beyond our grasp! Whether it has come to evil or good, I cannot say, yet dwelling upon mistakes of the past will do nothing to remedy the present predicament!" Aragorn clenched his jaw and stepped closer to the Elf. Frodo had rarely seen him so angered. Haldir dropped his tone to a harsh whisper. "You are the king of men, the heir of Isildur. From this you cannot shy. The very fate of us all depends upon you." The sharp bite of his condescending tone softened. "Legolas surely would not fault you."

For a moment, it was still. Time hung upon them, heavy with the profundity of the choice laid before them. The air was tight and suffocating. Frodo felt he could hardly breathe, what he had heard and seen suddenly surreal and unbelievable. How one strange twist of events had changed the course of things to come! The burden of the survival of the people of Middle Earth was no longer his to bear. This revelation felt strange. So often since leaving the Shire many months back he had wished to be rid of the Ring. Now that this desire had finally been granted, he felt exhausted. No longer was he a Ringbearer. Where his guilt had before disturbed him, the relief now offered him a sweet taste of freedom.

Aragorn sighed slowly and lowered his eyes. "What must I do?" he asked quietly.

Haldir's response was strong and confident. "It is time for you to take upon yourself the kingship of men. You must travel to Minas Tirith and secure the allegiance of your people. The Lady Galadriel spoke not of what forces may oppose us, but I do not doubt that the corrupted Boromir will contend with you for their loyalty. You must triumph. There is no other option."

All were silent. Aragorn stood still, tall and proud, yet hesitant. Frodo regarded him with compassionate eyes. He knew of the duty Aragorn's blood placed upon him. Before it had never really occurred to him that this responsibility would one day catch up with the swift feet of the ranger. Frodo understood little of the politics of men, but it was clear that the race was divided and leaderless. Uniting them under one rule would be a difficult task to say the least, and to expect this of Aragorn in such dire times made the impossible job that much more incredible. Yet the ranger did not waver. An elegant regality that not often dignified the man now proudly sang in his form. "If this is the only choice, then I will see it done. I trust the Lady Galadriel's wisdom. She would not lead us astray." A choice had been made.

Haldir nodded firmly. "And I will aid you. In Legolas' stead, I will protect you."

There was a low grumble. Gimli's ruddy face was taut in anger and sorrow. "You will not replace him," declared the Dwarf, "but I will bear my axe beside you as I did him."

Then came the creak of the door, and Éomer stepped inside the room. The blond man looked a bit winded and certainly troubled. Frodo watched as he forced a smile to a pale, distraught face. "Ah! I see you have found the visitor, Strider. Is this your lost comrade?" he asked.

"Nay," Aragorn responded, coming to stand before the Hobbits, "but a welcomed ally nonetheless."

"Good to hear, but I am distressed, for still you must remain here. Our forces have splintered, and rumors that the black threat from Isengard marches toward our manor are well-founded indeed. Our scouts and Riders have lost contact with Lord Erkenbrand's troops." The man sighed, waves of weariness emanating from his form. "We must prepare for war, and though this greatly inconveniences you, I cannot bother my king with your request at this time."

Aragorn narrowed his eyes. "Bear this new message to your liege at once, Éomer, son of Éomund: Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur and the Elessar, demands an audience."

The man visibly blanched, his face growing as pale as his abundant hair. His eyes grew wide and unbelieving. "This you cannot be!" he stuttered in disbelief.

"This I am, and I bid you to make haste," Aragorn ordered. His voice was tight and unforgiving.

"Sir, why did you not announce yourself when we met? Never would I have detained you!" Éomer stammered, clearly both embarrassed and unnerved. His face burned brightly.

"Then secrecy benefited me. Now the truth is necessary. If what you say is so, then this nation must have the leadership of your king. His indecision will be his downfall, and I will not stand idly by and allow that to occur."

Éomer was silent with surprise, left wordless and confused. After a short while he nodded, as if suddenly breaking from his paralyzed state. "Come, then. The King Théoden, though wise and strong, is not a trusting man. You others must stay behind."

Gimli opened his mouth to object, but a quick, hard look from Aragorn silenced him. "Let us go." Aragorn turned to his companions. Frodo met his gaze. "I will not be long." The ranger offered him a gentle grin, and in that instance the cold commander faded, leaving the Aragorn of old who was a tender protector and a strong advisor.

Merry and Pippin watched dumbfounded as the man turned and followed Éomer from the chamber. When the door had thudded safely shut, Pippin scratched his head. "What just happened?" he asked, his voice perplexed.

"Use your head, Pippin! There's a war coming!" Merry declared, whapping his cousin upside the head.

"A war?" asked Pippin, now rubbing where he had been struck. "Well, is that good?"

Frodo managed a weak smile. "I doubt it, you fool," Merry retorted.

Haldir cast them a harsh glare, which effectively terminated their banter. Gimli's stout form was taut in anticipation, his eyes afire, his limbs tense. Even Merry and Pippin, now silent, were determined, jaws set in acceptance of this new course, eyes vehement.

As Frodo looked upon their group, he felt his heart go out to each. For now, at least, he felt reassured, even given the harsh days ahead of them. Aragorn had again found his path. He would protect them with renewed valor. Haldir would lead them in this new journey, guided by his keen senses and the wisdom of Galadriel. And Gimli's axe would soon taste the revenge he so sorely desired. Yet, even in this affection and confidence Frodo felt for them all, he could not stifle the sadness in his heart.

For in a short time he would be leaving them for a quest of his own.

* * *

Night came upon Rohan, but the kingdom did not sleep. Not long after supper, Théoden had emerged from his chamber, this being the first occasion in many weeks that he descended to speak to his people. He had announced the intention of war and bade his subjects to prepare. The women and children were to make for the safety of the hills, while the men readied themselves for battle. This proclamation the King of the Mark made after much discussion and debate, and Aragorn had come to understand the power of bad advice, for the king's chief counselor, Gríma, known to most as Wormtongue, was a slick one indeed, weaseling his objections into the conversation with false votes of loyalty and oily convictions. Wormtongue's clever stasis over the king of Rohan had not held in the face of Aragorn's arguments, though, and the king had conceded to action. Moreover, he had left the care of the nation to his sister's daughter, Éowyn, so he himself could ride into battle with his men.

It was as if new energy had been borne into the people. The indecision and hesitation had faded without trace, leaving an air of urgency that permeated every citizen of Rohan. Aragorn watched the people scurry, rushing about tasks with fearful fervor. Horses, great mares and stallions of powerful stature and gait, were led from the stables by squires. Weapons were brought from storage and cleaned, and men bustled about the courtyard. There was smoking and drinking, loud, boisterous voices claiming an early victory over their unknown foes. Tomorrow morning, at first light, the army would march west to Helm's Deep, the last known location of the missing battalions.

Aragorn watched the hustle from balcony of the manor. He was tired, but racing thought did not allow him sleep. This evening his mind was full, concerned with a great many worries and fears. His eyes blankly stared upon the men of Rohan as they armed themselves, but he was distant, longing for things past and dreading things that had yet to come.

A critical battle would occur tomorrow, and they must succeed. Aragorn did not know the extent of Saruman's forces, but surmised that they were indeed significant. If the army of Rohan should flounder, disaster would come to them all. Though he was tenacious in mind, his heart was doubtful. He had convinced Théoden of this action, after all. Defeat in the battle tomorrow would mean forfeiting the tenuous trust they had formed. Assuming Galadriel's visions were true, he could not afford to lose Rohan's loyalty. Many years ago, this very moment in which he would have to rise to assume his birthright had seemed a distant concern that troubled him little. In those days he had been content to live peacefully among the Elves, shunning his duty and turning from his rightful path. That selfish ignorance needled him now with shame. He knew little of politics and the ways of court; though Elrond had been a good teacher of such, he had all too easily cast the lessons aside. He would have to learn now to be a leader. Haldir had made it painfully clear that if he did not, ruin would strike Middle Earth. He was not about to let such a foul fate befall them!

He thought of Arwen. His hand came up absently, calloused fingers caressing the shining Evenstar necklace she had given to him the evening prior to the council in Rivendell. What would she say of this predicament? He imagined her bright blue eyes, deeper than the sky at twilight, staring into his own with such intensity that it drew away his breath. She was wise beyond her years and strong beyond her heart. Their meeting so long ago seemed to him a dream, a flight of fancy and wonder that comforted him whenever its memory blessed his troubled soul. Although concerns for the battle on the morrow should have preempted thoughts of her, he could not help but embellish his desires. In his mind's eye, he basked in her beauty. Idly he wondered what made him worthy of her and worthy of the awesome gift she had given him. Arwen had forfeited her immortal life for his sake, and her choice still alarmed and amazed him. More than once he had tried to convince her rethink what she had done, for living in joy for all time hardly seemed the equal of spending a mere mortal's life in his company. But she had been adamant, trading an infinite existence for finite love, and he had graciously accepted what she offered. It hung lightly around his neck always, resting above his heart, and he would never forget what it meant to him.

She would support him, as she always did. Never would she blame him for the horrid weakness of his blood. This was his destiny, and evil held no claim to him. Her silent strength was his pulsing power. He missed her then, and he looked up to the stars. The night was crisp and clear, the clouds that had covered the day blowing to the east. Though much had happened since his last night in Rivendell, they were still the same. He would see her again. He hoped fairer times would embrace their next meeting.

Then his mind turned, ripped from the peace of Arwen's presence, and he worried deeply for Legolas. Haldir's words had brought unimaginable anguish to his heart. He not often concerned himself for his Elvish friend, as many times since they had met had Legolas proven himself an exceptional warrior who was perfectly capable of looking out for himself. It was silly, but Aragorn had often times likened himself to an older brother in their friendship, finding himself mindful for the Elf prince's safety and constantly protective. Legolas had once or twice lightly chided Aragorn for his state of mind, laughingly reminding the ranger that he was well over two thousand years old. Not wishing to damage his friend's pride, only in the privacy of his thoughts did Aragorn chuckle at the irony of the Elf's words. While he was greatly Aragorn's superior in age, Legolas still acted with a child's naiveté at times. He wore his slow maturity upon his face, the exuberant youth plainly betraying his inexperience. Though this brash attitude was frowned upon by elder Elves, it was what, in Aragorn's opinion, made Legolas so endearing.

His heart ached in guilt. Legolas had only recently come of age. His innocence was a precious gift. Much like Arwen, he loved Middle Earth with a fervor that not often showed in contemporary Elvish society. They were a dying breed, the last generation that still clung to this land. Would Legolas still thrive in the forests if he survived what now faced him? Would his innocence be forever destroyed? Aragorn felt fury, and clenched his fists hard upon the stone railing of the balcony. If the Elf did live, his lost purity could never be returned to him. The ranger cursed Boromir for his weakness. The damage that man had done to them all was immeasurable and irreversible! Worse still, he damned himself. The wretched twists of fate! To leave his closest friend in the fires of Saruman's wrath for the sake of this world! He could not in good conscience go after Legolas, not when the fate of so many more rested upon his shoulders. Thus his heart would be left to tear itself to bloody pieces in rage and grief.

A shadow passed behind him. So caught in his dark contemplation, he nearly missed it. Breaking from his reverie, he turned quickly and stepped forward. Aragorn glanced down the poorly lit hall. The stairs at the far end descended into the courtyard. There the small, hooded figure descended on nimble feet. The ranger opened his mouth to shout to creature, but he was not fast enough, for the suspicious shadow was already gone from his sight. Spurring into action, the ranger followed.

At the door he caught his game, reaching forward and grasping the fleeing creature's arm. In the weak torchlight he noticed the Elvish cloak, and the familiar features. "Frodo?" he questioned tentatively, his brow furrowed in confusion. He released his tight grip, and the small being turned. Indeed it was his friend Hobbit. "What are you doing?"

Frodo's eyes glinted with determination. "Don't stop me, Aragorn. Please," he implored softly.

The ranger's quick eyes scanned the small creature. Upon his back were a few bags stuffed with food and provisions. The Hobbit had dressed warmly, clad in a thick wool tunic and dark cotton breaches. The concealing cloak that blended so well with shadow was wrapped tightly about him. Sting, resting idly in her sheath, hung from his side. Quickly a conclusion came to Aragorn's mind. "You mean to leave," he stated simply, almost numbly. This he had not expected.

Wide blue eyes, so innocent and pure, met his own. "I'm no use to you anymore, though I wish I was. I'm not handy enough with a blade to be any good in battle. I don't know anything about the court of men." The Hobbit gave a regretful smile. "So you see, I might as well be out of your hair."

Astounded, Aragorn dropped to one knee before Frodo. "Frodo…" The words simply would not come.

"I have to find Sam," declared Frodo resolutely. Aragorn said nothing, amazed at the newfound purpose glowing in the Hobbit's eyes. "Without the Ring, I'm nothing remarkable. But I'm still his friend."

A slow understanding came to Aragorn. Though he disliked the thought of this lone but brave creature traveling in the dangerous wilds about them, he could not find it within himself to object. They were quiet, sharing a silent appreciation and sympathy. Bonds woven tight by toil would always remain. Then the ranger took the Hobbit's small hands, resigning himself to the other's decision. "Be safe, Frodo. I know you will find him."

Frodo returned his affectionate squeeze and then embraced him warmly. "I will. Please look after Merry and Pippin. They will not understand," he said, his voice muffled by Aragorn's shoulder. "Thank you for everything."

Then they split, and Frodo walked rapidly away, as if lingering would heighten the pain of separation. Aragorn watched him, his eyes tracing the Hobbit's small outline as he faded into the throng of working men unnoticed. The darkness covered Frodo, and then he was gone.

The ranger released a slow breath. "Until we meet again, Frodo Baggins." Then he turned and headed for his room, exhaustion bidding him to bed. Paths split, roads appeared. He wondered where his own might lead him.


	8. Dawn and Dusk

Dawn came to the sky, spilling light over the land, but Boromir was lost to himself and to the world. He walked absently, his feet taking him somewhere not of his conscious direction, but he found he could not care. His fate had become unimportant to him through a sickness of guilt, despair, and anger. The forest was thick, and he had long since lost interest in his path. Vaguely he realized he was heading east, away from Isengard, and was treading upon the boundaries of Fangorn. It should have meant something to him, this road he was restlessly traveling. Something inside drove him. When he took leave of his depression to contemplate, he knew why he was retracing the steps he had previously made in greed. He was searching for the Fellowship. If he could find them, somehow he knew he could make amends. It seemed so simple.

Yet he harbored cold doubts that would not be warded away by the golden sunlight falling upon him. In a daze he had run from Isengard, crushing flower, grass, and leaf under the thunder of his heavy feet. The memory of Legolas' cold glare and the bite of his last venomous words stung him still, and bitter tears rolled down dirty cheeks like rain as he trudged. Feeling the shame repeatedly was his penance, and no matter how he fought to ignore the pain that stabbed him inside, his conscience would not allow his escape. The only relief came from shallow promises. He would not rest until he found his friends. He did not know how he would manage, but he would convince Aragorn to trust him again. He felt a vile wretch when he remembered the shattered looks of betrayal upon the Hobbits' faces, especially Merry and Pippin. Now he prayed with every ounce of his weakened soul that they were safe. One way or another, he would win back their friendship, even if he was undeserving of it.

Moreover, he knew not the means by which he would find the strength to face Frodo again when he still could not even admit to himself that what he had done had not been the fault of any other. Sadly his own thoughts were little solace, but as he marched alone they were his only companionship. Desperately he wondered what was to become of him. No longer fit to be a steward or a king, no more worthy to even be a man, he was but a ghoul, a pitiful creature of sorrow and spite, both hating and loving the Ring, and through that hating and loving himself. He thought of Gollum, and was unable to deny his similarity to the sad creature no matter how the idea turned his stomach. It was like a poison, this desire for the Ring, that even now clouded his mind and sped his heart. Quite often he thought he might collapse and turn back to the call of evil for the sake of his sanity. Only the painful reminder of Legolas' soft tears as he had been pulled into Isengard kept him in line. Only the laughter he had once shared wrestling with Merry and Pippin stayed the madness. These things he kept close to his heart, a sword and shield of honor and light against the despicable darkness gurgling like swamp mud inside him and forever encroaching upon his spirit.

He had long lost track of the days that had passed, but that was to be expected, he supposed. This morning was not unlike any other, save for the parting of the gray cloak of the clouds to allow the sun to shine. For a long time he had lingered in a daze of agony and hurt, sobbing wretchedly in a huddle mass outside the destruction surrounding Isengard. When he had finally regained strength enough to travel, his feet had led him backwards along the tracks the army of Uruk-hai had made. Though his mind faltered and moaned, his feet seemed sure. From this he would not diverge. Demon now, he was once a proud man. For the dignity of his father and his race, he would not shun from facing the others!

Stopping then, he leaned against a tree and took a breath. The forest was gratefully thinning, the trees fading into the rolling grasslands of Rohan. The rays from the sun came down, warm and clean, and he basked in them, looking up the clear skies. A cool wisp of wind brushed past him, and with it he gladly went, swept into memory. He thought of the White City and its great tower. Oh, for the many mornings he had stood below, wondrously gazing upon it! It was a beautiful thing lit golden and pearl by the dawn, proud and ancient. Never did it waver, this tower of men. Never did it sway. And when the fresh wind came, it caressed heart and flag alike. It was strength for the weak, redemption for the disgraced. Hope for the fallen. A conversation not long passed filled his head with such vividness he heard it anew.  _"My father is a noble man, but his rule is failing. And now our people lose faith. He looks to me to make things right, and I would do it. I would see the glory of Gondor restored. Have you ever seen it, Aragorn? The White Tower of Ecthelion, glimmering like a spike of burned silver, its banners caught high on the morning breeze? Have you ever been called home by the clear ringing of silver trumpets?"_

He looked away in bitterness. Such a glorious vision was no longer appropriate for him. He wondered what his wise father would think of his past actions, but he could not say, nor did he want to, for the very idea of his father's scorn injured him. He had taken the Ring with the best intentions, but it had turned into the most crazy of corruptions. What he would not give to undo his vile deeds! He imagined Faramir then, the other son of Denethor, and hoped his brother would protect Gondor now when he could not. He knew he had failed them both. Sadly he wondered if ever again the beauty of Minas Tirith would greet his weary gaze.

Darkly his thoughts tuned to Aragorn. A great maelstrom of ambiguous emotion swirled within him, shaking him to his core. He had grown to respect the ranger, though for abandoning his blood for the sake of selfish dreams Boromir would never forgive him. But surely during the great trials they had faced together he had grown to accept the heir of Isildur. At Lórien, the spite and jealousy of his heart had settled, and words of brotherly affection had found their way from his lips.  _"One day our paths will lead us there and the tower guard shall take up the call, for the Lords of Gondor have returned!"_  He had meant this when he had said it, feeling nothing but fierce loyalty and love for Aragorn. Now he did not know how he considered the ranger. The noble heir surely would not share again his heart with him! Boromir could not deny his jealousy; so simply had Aragorn claimed the title that he himself had long sought. And this the ranger did not even desire!

Boromir clenched his fists in anger and began to walk once more, his steps long and powerful. The contention between the would-be king and the steward of Gondor had long been deep. At the council of Elrond they had argued, and Legolas had been quick to defend Aragorn. It angered Boromir that the Elf held the weak ranger in such high regard, when he himself could barely hope to grace the young prince's esteems. Legolas and Aragorn had such a quiet but fierce loyalty to each other that it angered Boromir, for he could not help but envy them. During the Fellowship's trials and travels, the archer and the ranger held an unquestionable confidence that was forbidden to others, and Boromir did not like being a third wheel. To Gimli it mattered not, for Dwarves were tough, solitary creatures that openly cared little for the relationships of others. But the son of Denethor had been covetous and resentful of their bond. Sadly, even though he wished deeply to deny the truth, he knew that he would never now gain the acceptance he had sought before.

He would have to try, though.

As he walked, he drew once forgotten  _lembas_  from the small packet at his belt and munched. The pure taste felt wrong upon his tongue, as though he was too tainted to enjoy them as he once had. The flavor reminded him of Lórien and inevitably of Rivendell. So long ago it was, but the Ring's first sight to him was still starkly vibrant. He had doubted before Elrond's council that it truly had existed, for its existence was so deeply lodged in lore and tightly wrapped in doubt. True enough, though, it did appear, placed upon a pedestal of stone in the center of the courtyard for all to see, glimmering in the sunlight arrogantly, as if professing its remarkable and powerful being. Instantly he had fallen in love with its elegant, gold curves. It seemed a tiny thing, a precious thing, an innocent thing. He had not seen this thought for folly then, and he still wondered if it really was so silly to be enamored by its glowing intimacy and promises. To him it was a Ring of Power, but only power and nothing more. Power could not be evil of itself; if a heart wielded it for malevolent intentions, it become malevolent, and if a heart wielded it for benevolent ambitions, good was the result. Power was the ability to fight, the ability to change, and such a force could never be blindly wicked.

He knew this to be a naïve falsehood. The Ring had driven him to evil, and he had sought to do right with it. But this was the only means to rationalize what he had done, and he did not have the strength to denounce it.

These were his darks thoughts as he walked, and they raced about his mind, slamming to and fro inside his skull like caged beasts, driving him mad. For days they had plagued him, and for days still they would persist. He would never be rid of the dark stain upon his soul.

Boromir came to a wide, flat land and he stopped upon a hill overlooking it, surprised at what he saw. In this his fears and guilt fled him, leaving attention free to concentrate on his senses. There before him was an army of men, glistening in dented and damaged mail, bearing broken and chipped swords and shields. Some were mounted upon weary steeds. Many were wounded, lagging and walking with a limp. They appeared beaten and disheartened, lethargically marching across the trampled fields to the east.

He watched dumbfounded a moment when a banner flapped conspicuously in the morning sun. The crest he recognized immediately as that of the kingdom of Rohan. Long had these horse-breeders been friends of the House of Denethor. Yet he was perplexed. The army appeared thin now, but undoubtedly it had been great before. The only conclusion that seemed logical was that they had faced Saruman's Uruk-hai. Could that have happened without his noticing as he had wandered? Surely it was possible, for he had spent much time dazed and deep in thought. He winced as he beheld them. Many had clearly died.

He made sense of the situation quickly, observing the men wearily and despondently trudge. If Aragorn had his wits about him, the ranger would have followed the army of Saruman to Isengard. With a force of men this great patrolling the plains, it was unlikely the Fellowship had not come upon them. And if that was the case, then these allies could lead him to his companions. Boromir drew a deep breath to ward away his anguish. Forward he resolutely stepped, descending the hill to meet the soldiers. Now he would again be a man amongst men, and his crimes he would hide.

* * *

King Théoden's forces moved westward. They had left Edoras upon the dawn, and though the march was long and arduous, they were making great distance relatively quickly. Aragorn was unsure whether or not their speed pleased him, for though thoughts of the upcoming fight left him restless, it did not encourage him that they were blindly entering territory close to Isengard, ignorant of what dangers lay in wait.

They traveled silently. A thick air of excitement and fear lay over the men, one not easily punctuated by silly palaver. The enormity of what they faced seemed too powerful. The men were anxious, as it had been many years since they last had a so clearly defined enemy upon which to make war. Even greater was the knowledge that in this battle they must succeed. To make a move against Saruman and then falter would surely lead to the destruction of Rohan. The tension was palpable, nearly tangible upon the gentle breeze and louder than the fall of feet and hoof and the clanking of armor against itself.

Aragorn glanced to Haldir beside him. The archer's keen eyes were trained forever skyward, scanning for threat or foe, his long face tight in concentration. The horse the Riders had given him, a white stallion by the name of Arod, trotted nervously. The animal seemed as agitated as the troops, his steps fidgety. As well he did not seem pleased with those deemed fit to ride him, and no amount of calm words or gentle pets by Haldir could comfort the riled beast. Behind Haldir, his face dark and indignant, sat Gimli. The Dwarf looked uncomfortable; Aragorn supposed the position he had assumed, in which the stout warrior was using all the strength of his legs to maintain his balance while minimally latching upon Haldir for support, would ache the body. In spite of himself the ranger chuckled quietly. He had never met a creature so fiercely proud as Gimli. It had taken the wretched trek through Moria, Gandalf's death, and the Lady Galadriel for the Dwarf to finally accept Legolas as a friend. It seemed such stupidity for the two great races of Dwarves and Elves to so blindly hate one another. Aragorn idly wondered what would have to befall them for Gimli to learn to trust Haldir.

On his other side rode Théoden. The aging king seemed to have regained vigor in the night since they had spoke, and he sat erect and powerful atop his most precious prize, Shadowfax. The horse's aura mimicked that of its master, courageous and leading. Aragorn was relieved and surprised at the king's transformation. Only the night before he was a sloth, content to please himself with wine and wealth. Now once more a guide and commander of men, Théoden appeared resolute, and for that Aragorn was glad. It would do them no good to hesitate now.

Behind him, seated upon a brown pony, were Merry and Pippin. The Hobbits had insisted that they accompany them into battle much to Aragorn's chagrin. He could not abandon them in Edoras, though the thought pleased him. They had as much a right to involve themselves in this struggle as any other. Frodo's sudden departure had troubled them, but Aragorn bade them not to worry. He explained to them that Frodo had appeared adamant, and if nothing else he was brave and dependable. They did not seem entirely heartened by the ranger's reassuring words, but had dropped the matter for more pressing concerns. Aragorn heard them chatter quietly every once in a while, a constant reminder that he would have to protect them.

His own mount, Hasufel, walked tall and proud, his stride great. Never before had he had the occasion to respect a horse as he did this one, for Hasufel was a magnificent animal. His coat could be likened to silk, glistening richly in the morning sun. The horse pulsed with elegant power as he stepped, each muscle flexing in delicate deliberation. Aragorn felt awed by him. He had known the inhabitants of Rohan to be exceptional breeders of horses, but never had he imagined they were so greatly skilled as to create such a glorious beast. Immediately he had grown attached to Hasufel and in the still places of his heart where his worries could not invade he was infinitely grateful for the mount's silent strength.

The dawn wore on to noon, and without rest they continued. The men neither tarried nor complained, as if the newfound leadership of their king demanded a higher level of obedience and resilience. Ahead Éomer sent scouts but they returned without sign or word of the missing troops of Erkenbrand. As time slipped by, hope began to fade and exhaustion crept into weary hearts. Though worry clung to the soldiers, Théoden was steadfast and that gave them strength. Still the tension grew and eyes were darting about with apprehension. A grotesque sense of foreboding clenched them in a vice, and with each empty mile traversed it grew tighter. Something surely awaited them, something dark and vicious. Inevitably they were drawing close to it, and that was infuriating. To walk openly into peril seemed foolish, but pride and duty would not be denied, and closer yet they marched to Isengard.

By the mark of late afternoon, when the sun was just beginning to disappear behind a wall of growing gray clouds, they reached Helm's Deep. It was a ravine of sorts, named for a hero of legend, Helm Hammerband, who had once defended it. Securely nestled in the gorge was Hornburg, the ancient, dilapidated fort wearied by time and weather. Whatever awe struck Aragorn at beholding such a famous place of the past was dwarfed by disgust and then fear, for as the army came to stop upon a precipice overlooking the site, a grisly scene of battle and death spread out before them.

Éomer blanched visibly as the wind picked up, blowing the stench of rotting flesh and burning hair to them. Strewn about the blackened fields were corpses, littered carelessly. Arrows, broken and split, haphazardly covered the ground, some sticking sickly from the necks and chests of the dead. Orc and man alike slept in a final, ugly rest; on the battlefield good and evil became much the same when laid to ruin. The smell of charred wood was pungent. "This cannot be," moaned Éomer in disbelief.

A great rumor went through the army, which the commanders, so taken with the ghastly destruction, did nothing to quell. Théoden outwardly seemed unfazed by this black sight, but his eyes spoke what his face did not. "A foul passing!" Anger clenched his tone.

Aragorn shook his head sadly. "There was naught you could do," he declared quietly.

Then came a cry and the gallop of horses. All eyes shot to the left as two Riders on swift steeds sped across the blood-soaked field. One, a young man with wide, childish eyes, shouted, his voice carrying on the wind, "Prince Éomer! Prince Éomer, sir! Enemy scouts!"

A cold chill wracked Aragorn, jolting him, and Hasufel reared. "Hold your men, my Lord!" the ranger cried. Théoden turned to him quickly, perplexed and unnerved, but Aragorn was already driving his mount forward. "Haldir!" he cried, bidding the Elf to join him.

Gimli opened his mouth to protest but all that escaped was an irritated curse as the archer spurred Arod into a gallop, tearing down the hill after Aragorn. The ranger did not look back as he thundered towards Hornburg, but he heard the fire of Éomer's orders as he, too, charged across the field. Desperation and panic beat in Aragorn's blood as his quick eyes scanned the rushing grasses. Hasufel's hooves struck the earth with a crushing power, yet he ran on light feet, avoiding many a rut and obstacle and flying like the wind across the burnt plain. There, ahead! A small company of Orcs, these lesser than the demons they had faced at Amon Hen, scavenged among the corpses, greedily picking through the bodies undoubtedly for usable arrows or food. The ranger grit his teeth. They could not allow these to escape and spread the word of their approach to the others!

He dropped Hasufel's reigns thoughtlessly, trusting the horse to lead him closer. Quickly his drew his black bow and nocked an arrow. Behind him, the cracking of Arod's feet against the dry ground resounded, and a shot whizzed by him. It met its mark, slamming into the head of a grimy Orc. The creature shrieked and fell. Now, though, its companions became aware of their attackers, lifting their heads from their searching. Another died from Aragorn's own arrow before they could move. Then a squeal of Dark Speech filled the air, and they turned and fled.

Aragorn cursed inwardly and urged Hasufel to run faster. Arrows whizzed by him from Haldir's quick bow, and Arod charged up beside him, snorting. Ahead the company of Orcs split, naturally attempting to distract their attackers. The ranger offered a quick glance to Haldir, but disregarding the outraged cry from Gimli, the Elf had already directed Arod after one of the retreating groups, diverging from Hasufel. Aragorn wasted not a moment more before launching arrow after arrow upon what remained of the Orcs, instinct and years of practice guiding quick hands and eyes. When he ceased his volley, few remained alive, and those that still struggled were slain by the shining sword of Éomer.

Three remained though, and this trio charged across the fields on surprisingly fast legs. They managed to dodge each of Aragorn's arrows, ducking and side-stepping almost intuitively, frustrating the ranger. They had traversed most of the plain, and ahead gray forests beckoned. If these demons should reach the woods, surely he would lose them!

He rode harder. These Orcs were wiry creatures, slick, cunning, and quick to escape. Hasufel drove faster, pounding over the field, as Aragorn depleted his quiver. One arrow struck a fleeing monster in the back, sending him tumbling into the trampled grasses. Two still ran. Angrily the ranger stowed his bow and drew Andúril, the blade gleaming in the sunlight as he raised it overhead. One Orc stumbled and he charged to it, his blade swooping down to cleave its wretched head from its shoulders. But the other ran on, uncaring of the demise of his comrades, sprinting into the woods and disappearing in the throng of trees.

Aragorn bit his lower lip, having neither time to think nor to breathe, as Hasufel charged into the dense forest. And then he stopped, drawing back on the reigns, his careful eyes glancing around rapidly. The few seconds he had taken to kill the other Orc had been costly indeed, for all that met his gaze now was a wall of trunk and leaf. The forest was still. The last enemy was gone.

He cursed softly, narrowing his eyes, and damned himself for allowing this to occur. Hasufel, as if sensing his anger, snorted and stepped back and forth restlessly. The ranger continued to look about, unwilling to truly admit that the last Orc had escaped. Éomer approached from behind, pulling his horse to a stop, winded. The man glanced about the scene. There was an unspoken anger and understanding. "Let us go back, son of Arathorn," the prince declared after a moment.

Aragorn felt a black worry squeeze him tightly. This would undoubtedly complicate things. Casting one last hateful glance, he turned and followed Éomer back to the others.

* * *

The prince and the ranger returned to find Théoden and his men had moved into the dark, dank protection of Hornburg. The King of the Mark was dismayed by Éomer's news. A black tiding indeed! Choices grew slim, and time would not wait. This mistake, though horrid and grievous, could not be undone.

Aragorn folded his arms across his chest. The army had descended to the field and was now milling about idly while its leaders spoke in private. He watched the men from atop the high wall of Hornburg. He sighed, the stench upon the air leaving him sick to his stomach. As much as loathed the choice before him, it seemed the only viable option. "I suggest, my Lord, that if we are to make a stand, we do so here," offered the ranger, turning to meet the gaze of Théoden.

The king seemed dubious. "A great battle was lost here, son of Arathorn," he commented dryly. "It seems as though this land was not kind to Lord Erkenbrand."

Éomer quietly declared, "I conjecture that he is not lost, my liege. My men roughly counted the dead. It is not enough to account for all of the noble lord's forces."

"You suggest that he was forced into retreat, sister-son?" Théoden questioned.

"Perhaps, my Lord," Éomer answered. The prince then turned and gazed sadly over the battlefield. Some of the soldiers were laboring to pile the bodies of the Orcs and burn them, great billows of black, acrid smoke pouring into the sky. "I respectfully submit the fact that the battle that occurred here ended as a stalemate. Our fallen are neither greater nor smaller than theirs. There was likely no clear victor."

Théoden grunted and folded arms across his chest. The breeze picked up his hair, blowing it across his aged and wrinkled face. "Then that is all the more reason why we should not linger in this dungeon," he announced. "It will be a waste to skirmish where the land does not favor us. We do not know the extent of Saruman's power. If it is great, he will corner and swarm us. Trapped here, we will be crushed."

Aragorn winced. The king's words were true enough, and the familiar guilt prickled his heart. "My Lord," he implored, forcing calm and steadiness into his voice, "though Haldir's shot was true, mine missed its mark and word of our position has spread to the enemy. This ground is good. If we can protect our flank, we will hold the high land. They will charge from thence," Aragorn declared, spreading his fingers to the west where the sun was slowly descending, burning the sky, "and be hindered by the wide open field. Though a hundred of Mirkwood's finest archers would greatly benefit us here, our own will be sufficient enough to weaken their charge with a piercing rain of arrows. Those that survive will swiftly meet their end." The ranger glanced below to the grassy grounds where soldiers worked and the horses grazed. "We shall form a line stretching from north to south to guard the flank and rear. Your men are talented, strong, and numerous. This they will be able to hold."

The king mused upon Aragorn's words a moment, rubbing his chin, his eyes distant. "So you say," he finally said, ending a quiet anxiety, "yet I cannot help but fear. You spoke of a great army that felled your Elf comrade. Even if that alone protects Saruman, how can we be sure we have the force to contend with it? Their numbers may dwarf our own, and we will have no reinforcement!"

"Sir," said Aragorn, "this I considered as well. This army of Orcs that Saruman has bred has already clashed with Lord Erkenbrand's troops and suffered losses. It may be much larger than we can face, but this I must doubt, for even Saruman does not wield such a fantastic power as to rejuvenate a tattered army without the passage of many days of healing. If that is so, then no work of own will prevent our destruction!"

They were silent a moment, wrought with the weight of the situation. So much uncertainty faced them all, and pondering produced more questions and few answers. Finally, Haldir, who had silently stood beside Gimli and watched the men debate, took it upon himself to speak. "King Théoden," he began clearly, drawing their attention, "if I may simplify matters. This land we know enough to mount a sturdy defense." The Elf's eyes glinted. "The enemy knows of our presence, and they will attack, and attack hard. I suggest that there are but two options: retreat to Edoras, thus abandoning Erkenbrand, wherever he may be, and effectively postpone this confrontation, or fight here and now at a place we can at least defend."

Aragorn was at that moment extremely grateful for Haldir's plain, albeit a bit arrogant, logic. Éomer glanced between the Elf, the ranger, and the king. "Haldir speaks eloquently and rightly, oh Lord. I would not myself venture to offer an opinion as to which course of action we should take."

"Venture it, sister-son, for I value your insight."

Éomer clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes. "The plan proposed by Aragorn is a good one. It is a far better thing to valiantly face the enemy here where we hold an advantage than to be ambushed."

After Éomer spoke, it became still once more. Aragorn turned and looked to the sunset. The blaring ball of light was bleeding into the sky, and the hours were slipping away much faster than he would have liked. Still, it was not his place to make this decision. Though he was heir to the kingdom of Gondor, the kingdom of Rohan was governed by different men of different mindsets. Thus he waited, outwardly patient, for Théoden to pass judgment upon the alternatives set before him. Inside he was screaming.

Finally, Théoden closed his eyes tiredly and released a slow breath that ruffled his thick facial whiskers. "May it be then that we make our stand here, entrenched in this fort upon Helm's Deep. I pray her old walls can still withstand the blows of many dark arrows." He turned suddenly. "Send word to the troops! Gather all the provisions to be had, and make preparations for battle! We form a line to guard our flank!" One soldier bowed quickly and then jogged away, jumping down the crumbling stairs to spread his lord's wishes. To another, Théoden snapped, "Summon our best archers. They will hold watch here upon this vantage."

Orders were dispatched, and the camp of the Army of the Mark was alive with activity. Hours quickly fled into dusk, and much was done. A stressful air descended upon them all that stank of death and ominous ruin, yet morale would not be crushed. As twilight came and work was completed, eyes turned westward to the line of forest, intently watching the trees for any sign of Orcs. It was a prolonged torture, a torment of the worst kind, and the men anxiously waited for their fate to be revealed to them.

A hushed and tenuous silence had come to them. Atop the wall, where a clear view of the entire battlefield was the advantage, Aragorn stood. Beside him was Haldir, the blond Elf calmly looking to the sky and trees and listening to the wind, having completed the repair of the arrows he had collected from the destruction below. Gimli rested at his other side, adorned in the bright and strong mail and chain of his race. His axe he carried over his shoulder, and the blade shone sharply in the last light of the sun. "How long has it been now, son of Arathorn?" the Dwarf questioned.

Aragorn closed his eyes a moment and tried to settle his riled nerves. This wait did infuriate and alarm him! Then he looked to his companion. "Five or six hours since we came to this place," he announced sadly. "The fall of night will not aid us."

Haldir was eerily relaxed. It seemed strange to Aragorn that he could be so composed, but as he considered it a funny, little thought came to him. Legolas had always been much the same, stately and serene even in the face of the direst of perils. Never in battle did Aragorn see his friend falter. Perhaps he had just grown so accustomed to Legolas' graces that he had unwittingly attributed the facet uniquely to the Elf prince. Elvish endurance and equanimity now served to amaze him anew as he beheld Haldir. "Have patience, Dwarf," Haldir said. "A black omen reeks in the air. They will come."

Gimli grunted hotly. "Hide your fears if you wish, Elf, but it is naught but a façade." Haldir shot the enraged son of Gloón a cold, angry glance, but said nothing more, turning his attention back to the sky.

Merry piped up. "Anybody want something to eat?" he asked, reaching forward and offering a red fruit. He sat beside Pippin, their backs against the cold, stone wall.

The other Hobbit reached up and snatched the prize. Then he took a loud bite. "Quit giving away all the food!" he ordered around a mouthful of sweet flesh. "We haven't got much, you know!" His tone was accusatory.

Merry took it back from his cousin and held it close, as though what he clenched to his breast was more valuable than a simple apple. "Don't be such a hog, Pip! This belongs to everyone, not just you and your bottomless stomach!"

Pippin opened his mouth to retort, but was interrupted by the wave of Haldir's thin hand and his harsh, commanding glare. "Quiet!" the Elf hissed before returning his attention ahead. His piercing gaze grew sharp and wary, and Aragorn followed his line of sight.

There, hidden by twilight, at the edge of the forest, black shapes moved. At first he could make little of them, shadow blending with form to create ambiguous apparitions. Aragorn strained his eyes, idly envying Haldir for his acute senses. But after a breath or so, the shapes grew numerous, and there was a squeal against the peace of the night. Cold surprise washed over the ranger. They are coming.

"Théoden, my Lord! Éomer! Ready your guard, for they approach!" he hollered into the breeze. In response below came a roar of both relief and excitement. The ranger grew satisfied as the clank of moving armor and the ring of drawing swords sang. Orders went up and down the line of the troops, each repetition of the words growing fainter as it traveled to the edges of the army.

Aragorn turned and drew Andúril. To Merry and Pippin, he ordered soundly, "Stay close to Haldir. If the fortress becomes overrun, flee." Too shaken for once to argue, the Hobbits nodded, their pale faces glowing in the fading light. Haldir had already drawn his bow and stood rigid, his eyes searching for foe at which to aim. Then the ranger nodded to Gimli, who had brandished his large axe, before storming down the stairs to the ground below.

As Aragorn stepped to the grass, the men raised their weapons at the bellowed instructions of their commanders. He pushed to the front of the line where Théoden rode upon Shadowfax, the king's shining blade lifted to the sky. Éomer held his horse still beside his liege. "There are many," he remarked gravely, and Aragorn looked ahead.

Like a horde of black spiders, the Orcs swarmed across the field. Deep drums beat behind them, their thunder growing louder as they approached. The force seemed infinite, and Aragorn felt panic begin to beat with him as endlessly they poured from the protection of the woods. Wave upon wave of attackers screamed across the field, squashing grasses, aggressively screaming their blood lust as if to scare away the men that opposed them. Thousands, it seemed, trampled the plains, each intent on murder, painted upon them all the vicious white hand of Saruman. So many more than he thought possible! He cursed himself for his deceitful logic, for it had become an error, a plight of ill advice!

This they could not face!

For a moment the shock was paralyzing, consuming, and he stood lost in the black of the setting sun. Then Aragorn felt himself again. His skin was tingling. His heart was thundering a painful denial. He clenched Andúril tightly, his palms sweaty and his knuckles white, and his knees felt weak. He had to remind himself to breathe.

Arrows began to whiz overhead, streaking through the darkened sky like lightning slicing through the air. The great shower fell upon the rapidly advancing menace, but it did little, barely thinning the ranks of the foremost lines. Still the shots continued, unyielding in their fortitude. The troops around the ranger howled a battle cry, horses and hands steady. Wills were adamant. This was the path they had chosen, and they could not turn back.

Gimli was tense beside him, rigid with violence and anger, for the moment of his long-awaited revenge had finally come to him. His axe gleamed viciously. In the clamor of approaching battle, he spoke. His words were soft, barely audible, but they shook Aragorn deeply. Out of them the ranger found his strength. "For the bond of our hearts, Legolas, I will not fail."

Then the enemy came upon them, and they charged into the fray.


	9. The Everlasting Night

The fight was furious.

In the dark of night, foe meshed with friend, and all become shadow in the fields. Though Gimli counted himself an excellent warrior, in the black it was difficult to maintain his sights. All around was a great cacophony of battle, cries of the wounded, the slash of swords through air, the grunts of exertion, the howls of the enemy. The Dwarf struggled to stay focused, though his axe moved quick enough to slay many an Orc. His racing heart was heavy.

The blade of his axe glinted in the moonlight. The sharp edge was covered in gore. Gimli smiled in grim satisfaction. As another round of attackers approached, he let loose a fierce cry and rounded upon them. The rage of the battle pounded through his body and released himself to it, bringing power to his swinging arms and strength to his legs. He slashed downward, catching one grisly Orc across its chest. The axe cut through easily enough, leaving an enormous, bloody laceration in the monster. It shrieked, tipped, and fell. Gimli wasted not a breath, turning to another approaching Orc and dispatching with it as easily as he had the first. His axe sang through the night air, and he danced with it, raw talent and years of practice guiding his feet and hands by instinct. Each slash heartened him. Each kill redeemed him.

Aragorn was not far, the bright blade of Andúril whizzing through the air to cleave the head from the shoulders of another attacker. Gimli jogged closer to the ranger. He did not want to lose Aragorn in the fray; the men of Rohan he did not trust enough to fight solely beside them. All around him the soldiers struggled with the Orcs, slashing frantically, pushing back their assailants with heavy, dented shields, defending themselves with punches and kicks if need be. Gimli lashed out, his axe slamming into the gut of one Orc. He yanked it free, reached down quickly, and lifted the beast's weapon. Clenching the second axe in his other hand, he continued his run towards his comrade.

The ranger was being overwhelmed. Three or four Orcs clawed at him, their vicious weapons slashing like lightning towards the hapless Aragorn. Blade met blade, sending a shower of hot sparks into the air and filling ears with a horrible screech of metal scratching upon metal. Gimli thundered forward, eyes wide with concern, panic fueling his steps. He would not fail another of his friends!

With a howl he hurled the second axe forward. Though shadows made apparitions of air and hid true substance, a satisfying thud answered, and then came a wretched cry. Gimli sped closer, bearing his axe, and let loose a deep battle cry, imploring his father for luck and strength. The axe sailed as though weightless and severed the arm of another Orc. Aragorn kicked the injured attacker to the ground before stabbing another. Though he hid his relief, the Dwarf shook inside. Painful memories flooded through his mind. Legolas' piercing, pained gaze looking to him at the shore of the Anduin when they had abandoned him again tormented the warrior. He shivered and forced his guilt to diminish.

He pressed up to Aragorn in the dark and felt the man sigh softly and shudder. "This does not go well," the ranger murmured quietly.

For every one they felled, another four seemed to appear, snarling hungrily at the thought of carnage. Gimli glanced frantically up and down the line, clenching the shaft of his axe tighter. In the cover of night he could not see whether or not the defenders had failed. If they had, undoubtedly they would be flanked and surrounded. The Dwarf growled and looked ahead as a chorus of guttural cries pierced them. "They come again!" he declared.

The men met the advance courageously, but they were weakening. Overhead came another barrage of arrows. Gimli thought that perhaps over the racket he heard Haldir directing the archers. He prayed their aim was true, for it would be a sad irony to be mistaken for evil in this deep black and slain by the arrow of an ally. The shots met their marks, and Orcs fell. It was still a formidable force that clashed against the line of defense, and Gimli gritted his teeth.

They fought alongside each other, the man and the Dwarf. Their weapons were their instruments of valor and deliverance, seeking to lay upon the enemy the fury of their pain. So much they had lost. So much they suffered. Friends were gone forever, dear companions taken by the shadow that they faced. Bleeding hearts pulsed in wrath and they killed, driven by the need to survive and the want to redeem. Instinct guided Gimli, and he was swept away in a powerful river of memory and anguish. For the pain of his heart, he longed to see Legolas again! The Elf had become such a simple and caring friend. He had found a dear comrade in the most unlikely of people and during a strange time. These foul beasts had taken that treasure from him. He screamed his anger.

For a long time he did not think, moving, fighting, breathing. The battle carried him and he joined with the warrior's spirit, letting it guide his mind and body. He came alive, swinging his axe like never before, his love for the lost Elf powering each mighty blow. But in the back of his mind, where his worries swirled like the dark of the night around him, he knew that the battle was turning in a foul direction. At his feet was a spread of corpses, both Orc and man, a veritable slaughter. The lines of their defense were thinning. The men of Rohan were faltering in the face of the large army of Orcs, for a force of this size they had not anticipated.

Though the noisy chaos of the fight disturbed the tranquility of the starless night, a great silence clenched the heart of Gimli, despair and panic swelling within him. He glanced up at Aragorn. Even in the shadow, he saw the man's fear glisten in his eyes. Surely the ranger knew it as well. Guards were failing. Men were dying by the hundreds. Their forces were waning. Soon they would be flanked, and that would inevitably seal their fates. This was a battle they could not win.

Yet this attack they again repelled, and the remaining Orcs retreated to reform. The Dwarf was breathing loudly, struggling to catch again his wind. Aragorn dropped down to a crouch and scrubbed a hand through his hair in distress. A loud thunder of hooves approached. Gimli smacked a dead Orc away from his knees, sending it hurtling down to the sea of bodies. The Dwarf turned and looked upward.

"Hold your positions!" came Théoden's order from atop Shadowfax. The massive beast reared, pawing the air angrily. The king lifted his sword to the moon, trying obviously to rally the beaten men. "Stand tall and face them! Hold!"

Aragorn saw it first, but in hindsight Gimli supposed he too knew that what was to come was simply a matter of time. Upon the tall horse, even in the shroud of night, the King of the Mark was a clear target. His blade shone like a spike of silver in the moonlight and his mail glowed. The ranger opened his mouth, undoubtedly wishing to usher the king down from his perch. But it was for naught, for at incredible speeds came forth the shot of an enemy archer. The arrow sunk deep into the back of Théoden's neck. It broke through to the other side with a spray of dark blood, the tip protruding from his throat hideously.

It was quiet for an endless eternity. Gimli watched thunderstruck, paralyzed by his shock, as the king sat motionlessly atop Shadowfax. The eyes of army were lifelessly observing in horror and alarm as their king teetered. Then Shadowfax whinnied and reared once more, and the limp body was spilled from his back. The horse then ran away in a wild gallop, disappearing into the night.

Gimli could not think to speak or move, unbelieving. He watched numbly as Aragorn stumbled forward, racing from the wall of Hornburg. Only when Éomer's terrified cry of despair filled the night did his stupor shatter, and his stout legs moved quickly.

At Théoden's side he watched Aragorn drop to his knees. Gimli kicked away irritating Orc corpses, a tempest of fear and anger driving him forward. Éomer approached, upon his steed, his garb bloody. The Rider leapt from the horse, hitting the ground loudly, but he did not stumble. His fear was clear on his white face. Together Éomer and Gimli reached the growing crowd about the fallen king.

Looking down, Gimli beheld a gruesome sight. Théoden's white hair was stained a dark red now, and his once strong face was slack. The expression was one of denial and shock, frozen into his countenance forever by death. Unseeing eyes looked to the dark sky above. There was blood everywhere.

Aragorn withdrew his hands from the king's neck. "He is dead," the ranger stated sadly. Gimli wondered why the man bothered; it was painfully obvious.

Éomer fell to his knees beside his still liege. Tears wet the Rider's dirty cheeks. Yet the prince did not speak, numbly gazing upon Théoden. Aragorn glanced to him. The army had become silent in fear and loss. A great king murdered by the darkness! Death to all that should speak in the face of such a disservice to Middle Earth!

The Orcs were laughing from the other end of the field, and it was an ugly sound.

Gimli bowed his head as Aragorn gently closed the eyelids of Théoden, relieving all of the painful sight of those soulless eyes desperately searching the heavens for absolution. The Dwarf sighed slowly, his soul shaking. He cared not for men in general, as was the mindset of his race. The plight of Gondor and Rohan and their citizens was a trivial concern for the Dwarves, for it was borne of their own greed and stupidity, and much of Middle Earth had suffered for the weakness of men. Since he had become one of the Fellowship, this old prejudice had faded. He had grown to have a deep respect for Aragorn. This he had held for Boromir as well, until the wretched weakling had betrayed them. His fists tightened in his anger. To see another slain over the One Ring enraged him! As a Dwarf, he could not ignore the honor of dying bravely in battle. Théoden had been slain in a cowardly show of disrespect, murdered by a sniper's arrow, and this Gimli would not forgive! The passing of a great man disheartened him.

Time pressed upon them again. Aragorn stood, clenching Andúril. The ranger's face was stone. "Éomer," he said quietly. "Lead your king's men."

The prince did not look up, weeping quietly for their plight. For a long moment, no one had the strength to speak, the air tense and heavy with dreary fear and pain. Then Aragorn snapped, "Éomer, son of Eomund! Do your king honor and command his forces now, before destruction come to it!"

As if fate sought to forsake them, then came again the howl of the enemy and the thunder of their approaching feet. Another charge! Every man grew stiff in fear. Death surely awaited them now!

Wiping his face, Éomer stood stiffly. "What can we do now?" he asked softly, his eyes flaring at Aragorn's sharp tones. "We have lost here!"

"Quickly, then," replied Aragorn, glancing about, "we must move into Hornburg! The fort will protect us!"

"And leave us cornered?" Éomer hissed angrily.

Gimli felt the strength leave him and he frowned. This night would crush them. There would be no escape. He felt ready to resign himself to that fate.

"There is no choice!" announced Aragorn.

Then the prince met the eyes of the ranger. An unspoken understanding grew between them from which Gimli was excluded. The Dwarf watched them, bewildered at their calm stares as the arrows of the enemy poured down around them. Then the endless moment left. Éomer raised his voice to the men. "Into the fort! Make haste to grab the injured! Into the fort!"

The men, or what remained of them, did not need to be told twice. Posts were abandoned, positions left empty, as they ran panicked to the rotting protection of Hornburg. The wounded were carried or coaxed to their feet. The troops raced inside, thundering up the stairs to make room for those behind.

Aragorn sheathed his sword. He grabbed the shoulders of the fallen Théoden. No words were spoken, but none were needed. Éomer lifted his liege's lifeless legs, and together the two men bore the weight of their fallen commander.

Gimli loathed retreating, but there was no other option. They had lost. He raced after the others, glancing as the walls of raging Orcs gained ground upon them. He charged into the old entrance of the fort. Soldiers on either side struggled with heavy doors, pushing upon their old surfaces with grunts of strain. Gimli scrambled to one side and threw his weight into it, his strong arms shaking with exertion as he fought to close the portal. Finally, as the last of the men stumbled inside, the heavy doors slammed shut, sending them all into darkness.

* * *

Pain.

Pain and heat.

And fear.

Agony. Horrible anguish and torturous torment.

_"This will be your existence now. Never again will you know joy. Never again will you feel the coolness of a morning breeze as you run through your forests, or taste the warmth of the sun on your skin. A wretch such as you is fit for darkness!"_

The words hurt like new as they filled his mind, the memory piercing. "No," he moaned through clenched teeth.

_"Why do you resist this? You cannot contend with the will of Sauron. He will triumph, and you will die. This you cannot fight or prevent it. You are a fool to think you can keep the Ring's location hidden from him!"_

"I will not give up." There was the sound of his voice, but in the haze of delirium he was not sure whether or not he spoke his thought. The tone sounded beaten and deflated. Alien.

_"Infant! You are but a child. You may have come of age, but you are blind and naïve and vainly hopeful. Do you hope to escape? You will not! Do you hope to die? This freedom I will not avail you! You cannot possibly hope to fight me! Foolish Elf child."_

Rage stroked fire into his mind. "I am not a child!"

A thousand taunts. Painful jeers. This was his world, and he could ignore it no more than he could the weight of the burning secret he held within.  _"Your future, my dear Legolas. Chained to the night. You will not find solace in the sun, for she will never again welcome you into her arms. Your pitiful trees will abandon you, for you will not be fit to sing to them any longer! The black shadow of corruption will cling to you always! A child of the leaves, shunned and despised! Even now you wilt."_

_No!_

He opened his eyes. For a long time, he did nothing but breathe, each loud rush of air echoing between the black walls of his cell. The air was musty and stank of sweat and blood, but he sucked it in desperately. He clawed at his composure, trying to slow the racing of his erratic heart, fighting to will his mind and body into some sort of calm. Despair welled up inside him, threatening his tenuous strength, and tears stung his eyes.  _Do not cry,_  came the vehement order of his mind.  _Do not! Do not give in!_

He teetered between utter desolation and fleeting tranquility for a moment or so, struggling to ward away the distress. Finally, the vigor of his heart triumphed, and the overwhelming crush of his depression abated. The vile voice, a memory of so many vicious mocks, insults, and threats from the twisted mouth of Saruman, fled into the shadow. Undoubtedly it would assail him if he stupidly should sleep again. He would have to be stronger. The last beating left him too worn and hurt to fight against them, much less the demands of his battered body, and the last memory to flit across his numb mind was the laughter of the Orcs as one slammed him to the floor. He had mercifully lapsed into shadows as his head cracked against the black stone.

The pain came unbidden. Again he felt the blow, his skull wracking in hot agony. He hissed and closed his eyes at the spinning shadows, fighting against the dizziness that clenched his stomach painfully. In the minutes that followed he had to concentrate on breathing, fiery pain lacing his body in great, debilitating shocks. An eternity of hurt languished him, the rush of blood between his ears loud enough to deafen. All he could do was ride it out, struggling simply to survive in its wake as wave after wave battered him.

Then this too passed. He gasped, sweat rolling down his flushed, bloodied face, as the sharp grasp of agony released him. Darkness tempted him, but he would not oblige the call of sleep this time. It was a false security by which he could not afford to be enticed. Surely Saruman was watching his dreams and nightmares, probing into his weakened, unconscious mind for the Ring's whereabouts. Although the thought frightened him, prickling his gooseflesh, he could not rightfully disregard the possibility. He could withstand the pain of the torture, but he could not protect his vulnerable mind. He would rather face the wrath of the Orcs' whips and lusts than subject his mind to Saruman's torment.

Legolas licked dry lips and struggled now to sit up, ignoring the wail of his injuries. After a few moments of exertion, he managed to right himself. The effort had worn him, and tiredly he leaned back into the cold, dry wall of his cell, closing his eyes as once again the abyss of black and stone around him swirled and spun. Once his nausea subsided, he took stock of his wounds, new and old. Bruises and bleeding welts covered his once fair and ivory skin. His broken ribs had not healed, constantly aggravated by the abuse, leaving a massive blue and red mark on his lower chest. His back was numb. It frightened and disgusted him to picture what the skin must look like, crossed and ripped by the sharp snap of whips, torn, inflamed, and bloody. The wounds were serious enough to be comforted by the cool rock they touched, and for the numbing effects of the chilly air Legolas was glad. He could hardly stand to move the fingers of his left hand. In the meager light that streamed through the wrought iron bars of the cage door, he could see how swollen the digits had become. As a punishment for trying to escape days before, Saruman had ordered the bones of his wrist shattered. The limb lay uselessly in his lap, distended and enlarged. The clasp of the manacles tightly binding his hands together before him did little to reduce the agony, the metal digging into the wound and crushing torn muscles and broken bones. It was a cruel fact; he could not make much use even of his good hand, for to do so he would have to move them together, and his left was far too pained. It throbbed excruciatingly in time with his agonized heart.

The Elf prince blinked a few times. This nightmarish cell, devoid of life and light, was suffocating him. Still everything seemed horridly blurry. Despite the pain, he raised his right hand to the side of his head and felt for the extent of the injury. There was slick wetness matted in his thick hair and he winced as his inquisitive and light fingertips probed the extent of the gash. It was quite deep, but the bone had not been harmed. Still it bled profusely and he felt lightheaded. This was the worse yet to come to him.

Breathing slowly was the only way to keep the panic at bay, even though it pained him to concentrate on the swell of his chest. He was so thirsty and hungry; they gave him only enough water to survive. He was too exhausted and disoriented to be still, so he simply let himself shake and shiver in the cold and agony. Low temperatures rarely affected Elves, but he had no doubt that the trauma of his battered body only heightened the discomfort of his naked skin. His leggings were in tatters, torn by the snap of whips and the grasp of restraining claws. His hair, once bright and beautiful, was dark with dirt and his own blood and snarled. The braids he had customarily worn as a symbol of his race and pride had been ripped apart. Sadly he touched his breast. The blood and dirt seemed ingrained into him, tarnishing flawless, smooth skin. Saruman decreed that their prisoner was to have no dignity. He was neither prince nor Elf, but a lowly creature of the shadow. Though the Orcs happily obliged their master's demoralization of their toy, Legolas ignored Saruman's cruel words. He would remain an Elf always, regardless of what they did to him. And as such, he would endure. He would not lose hope, and he would not surrender. He would not betray the others. Saruman could defile and disfigure him, but the wizard could not alter the blood that hotly pulsed through his veins. He was his father's son, and his father was a powerful and wise Elf king. He was kin to the strength of his siblings. He was a confidant and affectionate companion of Arwen. He was friend to Gimli, protector to Frodo, and brother to Aragorn. This the wizard could not change!

As the days had dragged on and the pain grew worse, worry and fear gnawed at this resolution. Legolas swallowed heavily, his face wound tightly into a grimace, as he tipped his head upward. His own weakness made him sick. Death he would have faced, though it greatly terrified him. However, the unsettling prospect of forever remaining a slave to Saruman's cruelty now frightened him more, and he feared the depraved Istar would never allow him to die. Something vicious and sadistic crawled into Saruman's cold, calm, and beady gaze whenever he descended to witness his monsters beat their captive. The cruel glint laughed and danced in the wizard's eyes when the Orcs soiled Legolas with their filthy touches and broke his skin with their evil weapons, spilling blood and tears. Saruman reveled in his screams. Such a base and malicious twist of good and reason! Though it riled Legolas to consider it, he found he could not disregard it. That wicked little grin, that horrible and hungry leer troubled him greatly, for he knew it well. He understood now the way the wicked Ring exerted its evil. This was its sick power, its wretched desire for suffering, its insane lust. The very same look had distorted Boromir's nobility. It had harbored in his eyes when he had ordered the Uruk-hai to beat Legolas. It had glowed in the moonlight when he had murdered the Orc leader. It had sickly sung of its domination when he had savagely ripped apart the Elf's clothes in search of the lost Ring. So many days back, yet the evil would never cease its torment! Would this be his ultimate torture, to spend the rest of his eternal days watching Saruman gleefully take pleasure in his pain?

He diverted his thoughts. Anger clenched his heart. By Elbereth, he wanted a long, hot bath! The aroma of a good meal and wine amongst his family tortured his senses! He long to see the sun! He missed Mirkwood more with each long hour spent in silent captivity. He wished to see his father's knowing, proud smile, and listen to his brothers spar and argue. To race among the trees, to defend their borders beside Vardaithil's ancient strength, to sing a sweet lyric of summer with Aratadarion, even to debate with Astaldogald… his heart wept for this. The familiar smells and sounds of his home ached in his bones. Terribly he wished to banter with Gimli. Despite himself he found himself worried for his Dwarf friend. So gruff and proud, the little creature held such a great heart. Never would Legolas forgive himself if Gimli were to fall in battle! Ruefully a tiny grin tugged at his cracked, bloody lips. The silence was heavy, and he longed to hear the entertaining and heartening stupidity of Merry and Pippin. He prayed that Sam and Frodo were well. So great was the yearning to see them that it shook him. Aragorn's friendly smile invaded his mind, and there it lingered. He desperately pined for days past, when things were simpler, when hearts were unburdened. Legolas dreamed again that he was in Rivendell, sparring with Aragorn lightly, listening to Arwen laugh at their silly games, dining with Lord Elrond and his family, singing to the stars afterwards atop the lofty branches of the great trees, sleeping in the embrace of peace. These memories brought tears to his eyes. Would he ever again see Aragorn? Would he once more return to Rivendell and sit with Arwen in companionable silence under the moon? Would he find his way home to his forests, to his brothers, to his father?

An angry cry of frustrated despair fled his lips, and he balled his right hand into a fist tight enough to draw blood from his palm.  _Curse you, Boromir! I pray your guilt torments your heart as my rage does mine!_ Tears threatened again, but he was too furious and frightened to cry.

After a moment, he regained himself. His ire gave him strength, but he would not pity himself. He had chosen this fate willingly. And though his memories, wishes, and dreams hurt him, they drove him to have hope. If Saruman took away that, he truly would be reduced to heartless, helpless, pitiful shadow. Only then would he no longer be a prince and an Elf.

So he sang. At first his voice was weak and raspy, its tone marred by screaming and dryness. His heart wavered uncertainly, afraid that, upon hearing his song, the beasts would return and hit him anew for his impudence. But as the moments passed, he gained confidence, and lifted his voice to the shadows above. He sang and sang, letting the anguish of his heart escape in melody. Idly he wondered if the sun and trees could hear him. Though he knew not, thinking as such brought him courage.

Time passed, and he thought of many things. He thought of the Fellowship. He thought of Mirkwood and Rivendell. He thought of Aragorn and Arwen. Of Men and Elves and the strange twists of fate that united and divided. He thought of Sam and the Ring. Such a small creature, changing the course of history. He wished he could have done more. He wondered if the chance was not yet lost.

There came talk down the hall. He stilled his voice and strained his ears. For a mortal, the words would have been undetectable, much less discernible. But he detected them easily enough. A man's voice came first, the tone meek and nasal, his words lined with desperation. "My Lord, you must understand, I meant no disrespect!"

"You disgust me, Wormtongue." A deep voice, livid with cold anger. Saruman. "The weaklings of Rohan pose no threat to me. To suggest my Uruk-hai would fail is blasphemous! Do you seek to judge the will of Sauron?"

"Nay, oh Lord, but I speak out of duty! Surely you must see that! If the men of the Mark march to Isengard, you will be cornered!"

"You have failed me, Wormtongue, and now you doubt my wisdom. For this, I shall kill you." The words were cold and evil.

A terrified shriek. "Please, Lord, stay your anger! There was naught I could do! A strange man came and took Théoden's ear! My advice was shunned!"

Silence a moment. Legolas' brow furrowed in confusion. "A strange man? Of what sort?" Saruman questioned slowly, his tone slithering through the air.

Wormtongue's response was quick, the words nearly slurring. "A ranger. I knew not of his face, but the name was notorious. The Elfstone and heir of Isildur, Aragorn, son of Arathorn." Legolas' heart stopped. For a moment, he could not think or breathe.  _Aragorn is alive!_ "He spoke cleverly and convinced Théoden to move against you. I tried to talk him out of such foolery, but the king would not have it! He spurned me and placed his weak niece upon the throne!"

Neither Saruman nor Legolas listened to the traitor's rambling. "Did the man have halflings in his company?" the Istar snapped loudly. The Elf felt the blood drain from his face. He found he could do nothing in his worry and fear but listen. "Answer, you fool!"

"I know not surely, for I am unaware of the race! He had four or five Dwarves with him, I reckon," Wormtongue declared, his tone distant, as though in thought.

"There was but one Dwarf. The smaller folk were halflings. How many did you see?" Saruman explained icily.

Wormtongue hesitated. Legolas' mind was reeling. "Three or four, oh Lord."

"Well, which was it? Three or four?"

Another yelp. "I cannot remember, Lord! I did not think it of importance!"

Saruman growled. Then there was the thunder of footsteps slapping against the stone tunnel. Legolas closed his eyes briefly, knowing what was coming and dreading it. There was angry shouting, yelling in Dark Speech, and a squeal. Then the door to his cell slammed open.

White robes contrasted powerfully against the black of the prison, but the demon that bore them matched the shadows well. Legolas looked up to Saruman, searching for strength. If Aragorn was alive, there was yet hope for them all! He must not now submit! "It seems that your companions have reappeared," the wizard sneered, gripping his staff tightly. Legolas said nothing, fury glinting in his eyes, as he stared at the wizard. He ground his teeth. A long silent moment passed, wrought with tension and rage. Wormtongue watched the display numbly, shying backwards to the Orcs that had entered. The glares between Elf and the Istar crackled with lightning. Then Saruman howled in anger and ripped his staff upward.

Legolas could not struggle as an incredible force grabbed him. Weightlessly he was flung backwards, and the second of flight seemed to last forever. Then he struck the wall hard, and his wounded back flared in wrenching agony. His world shattered, and he screamed.

As the Elf sunk to the floor in a breathless daze of hurt, leaving a sick trail of blood down the wall, the wizard's eyes burned in anger. "Speak, you fool!" he demanded. Then he ripped the staff around.

Again the intangible weight struck the poor Elf, sending him crashing into the far wall of the room. This time Legolas could not cry out, his lungs burning for air, his heart pumping pain all around his body. The force held him pressed to the wall, binding him to the surface with invisible ties, and he could not find the strength to even cry.

Like a demon of the deep, Saruman stepped closer. Legolas writhed helplessly as he was squeezed and pulled. Through blurry, teary eyes, he watched the Istar advance upon his body. "You returned the Ring to the Fellowship," Saruman hissed, narrowing his fiery eyes, "to the Halfling who carried it." The air around his wounded chest constricted, grinding bone into bone, and Legolas gasped. Blackness was sucking him down deep, and he was drowning in it. "Tell me, Legolas, or I will break every bone in your body!"

He choked, tears running down his bloody face. "No," he grunted through clenched teeth. Terror and hatred drove him. "I did not!"

One of his ribs snapped and he howled. "You lie, Elfling. Do not test me!" Another sickeningly cracked.

Legolas was slipping away from life. Bright, thick blood dripped to the floor. "Please," he moaned weakly, terrified of the darkness all around him, desperate to stop the pain.

Saruman looked amused. With a small grunt of satisfaction, he neared the hapless Elf prince. His long, white hand came to cup Legolas' quivering chin. "This secret you hold burns you," he said quietly. The elegant thumb wiped a tear coursing its way down Legolas' pale cheek. "I know your pain. You are alone here. No one will save you. No one will help you. Your misery is great, and you doubt that it will in the end avail you."

Legolas felt a sob well up in his throat. Every part of his body was screaming in intense agony. The words were soft, almost comforting, a balm to his brutalized soul. He wanted to relent then, to let go this painful choice, and find release. He almost did give into the want of his weary heart and worn body. Only the familiar sadistic glint of Saruman's eyes kept him attached to reason. The wizard would never care for his plight or free him from his hurt!

Yet the strength to defy was fading into the swallowing blackness. Saruman smiled. It was a sick sight. "Tell me where the Ring is, Legolas. Your needless suffering wears you. I will release you from it, if you only say what I want." Legolas whimpered, tears flooding his eyes. The grip upon his jaw turned harsh, the long white nails stabbing into young flesh. "Tell me!"

"I will not!" the Elf cried loudly, squeezing his eyes shut. His defiance was immediately rewarded. The undetectable ties that bound him to the wall suddenly repulsed him, sending him hurtling forward at frightening speeds. With a bone-jarring crunch, his struck the opposite wall once more. Intense agony burst through him and he slumped to the floor. The ache stabbed him. He tried to lean up, but he was torn and broken inside. He tasted something warm and bitter. For a moment he could make no sense of it, his mind as jumbled as his body. Then panic pulsed through him. All he could do to stop from choking on his own blood was weakly turn over, the red gore spilling from his mouth as he painfully coughed and retched.

A long time seemed to pass. For the Elf, it was an eternity of grief and terror, of pain and exhaustion, and his body shook in its defeat. He collapsed in a pool of his blood. Then, over the ringing in his ears, a conversation came again. "Pitiful creature. His loyalty will destroy him." Had Legolas been aware enough to make sense of what he heard, he would have bristled at the wizard's mocking tones.

"What are we to do now, oh Lord?" one of the Orcs that had entered asked.

"I doubt what remains of the Fellowship has the Ring. If it did, it makes no sense for their leader to involve them in this pointless fray allied with Rohan." A quiet moment. Legolas concentrated on breathing. He could not find the strength to move. He felt detached from his body, the pain a numb and foreign experience. His limbs were limp and would not heed to his commands. His eyes were slipping shut no matter how he sought to fight it. "The Ring continues to elude the Eye, and the Elf grows weaker."

Wormtongue spoke again. "What of Rohan's army?"

"They are but insignificant insects. Let them valiantly face my Uruk-hai. They will fall."

"And if they do not?" countered Wormtongue. "Respectfully, my Lord, they would surround Isengard. You would be trapped."

"What would you suggest?" Saruman asked after a quiet moment.

"Move, sir. Travel to Minas Morgul and then to Barad-Dûr. There the mortals dare not tread, and Sauron's forces will protect you."

 _Barad-Dûr…_  Vaguely, where his mind was not succumbed with pain, Legolas was afraid. Sauron's stronghold. If they should take him there, there would be no escape! His soul quaked in pain as his eyes unwittingly closed.

Saruman seemed to contemplate. Finally he spoke. "You have now proved your worth, Wormtongue. Though I grow anxious at the thought of nearing Sauron's power, your suggestion holds much merit. If indeed the Elf somehow managed to return the Ring to one of the halflings, surely it now travels through Mordor. The Hobbit certainly will seek to continue where the others have fallen. From thence, I will undoubtedly find it."

Deep inside, Legolas screamed.

"We travel immediately. Make all the necessary preparations." There was a stampede of leaving feet.

"What of the Elf?"

"With us he will come." Sick emptiness. Saruman said harshly, "He will tell us which of the halflings has what we seek. I will break him."

Then an eerie silence came, long and steady. The black sea of suffering held the young archer prisoner, squeezing his light, choking his heart. He could not struggle. Falling footsteps, swishing robes. A quiet breath against the stillness. Dimly he felt a hand touch his face. "Never again will you know joy, Legolas," Saruman quietly repeated. "Never again will you shine. The shadows will have a beautiful prisoner in you."

The cold, hard grasp left. With a shrill whine, the door to the cell slammed shut.

The Elf faded away in his pain. The cell, once filled with both song and scream, grew silent.

* * *

Helm's Deep had become eerily quiet, but it did not comfort Aragorn. Nor did it relieve him, for, though the Orcs had stayed their assault momentarily, he knew beyond any doubt that they were still outside, most likely regrouping for another charge. The king held his breath and listened, closing his weary eyes. Hornburg was silent. It was tightly packed, men squeezed against each other. Down below, in the belly of the fort, the air hung hot and oppressive. The wounded were laid out, many caught between life and death, shuddering in a final fight with mortality, their skin clammy and white. A shroud of depression came over them all. Even upon the wall, where Aragorn now sat, looking upon the moon, melancholy invaded.

Long hours had passed. The very beginnings of dawn were coming to the land, the eastern skies turning orange and red as the sun wearily rose. Aragorn watched it blearily, feeling exhaustion pummel his dry eyes and battered body. How lethargic it was! Would this night never end?

He turned to Gimli, who sat beside him. The Dwarf's back was pressed to the wall for support, his head bowed low. He might have been sleeping, though Aragorn could not tell. Not far from him slumbered Merry and Pippin, each wrapped in a green blanket for warmth. They seemed content enough, their faces placid, and Aragorn could not help but envy them for their peace. His heart was far too heavy to lapse into dream. Only Haldir seemed alert. The Elf sat cross-legged beside him. Nimble fingers worked with wooden shafts and a white dagger, trying to repair arrows. He did not speak, his long face as calm as ever. His pale hair glowed in the waning night still like silver. Every so often he would raise his head, as if at a distant sound, and his eyes would narrow. This gesture attracted Aragorn's attention, but the Elf would always turn quickly back to his work before the ranger could detect what disturbed him. Aragorn grew a bit frustrated at this; he was so accustomed to Legolas' intuitions that Haldir's aloof actions baffled him. He supposed the Lórien archer would long be in his company now, so he would eventually learn.

The solemnity of the men of Rohan seemed unbreakable. The army had begun deeply mourning their lost king. Aragorn was worried at their despondent expressions. They had clearly already accepted their defeat, and that was unnerving. Théoden had once been a great man, even if he had recently lost his way in wine and wealth. Aragorn regretted that now he would never come to appreciate the wisdom of the old king. To see a noble leader fall in battle had been tragic, yet this he would not allow to conquer him. They still must fight.

Yet now he wondered what to do. They had suffered heavy losses at the hands of the unexpectedly large army. Their forces had been more than halved, many of the men laying dead in the fields below, some still crying for rescue. He knew not how many of the enemy they had destroyed but doubted that they had the advantage of greater size. The Orcs had surely surrounded Hornburg, cutting off their escape. Although he knew at the time that fleeing into the fort was the only option, now he wondered if there might not have been a better alternative. Retreating to Edoras would have only led the Orcs to plunder the city. Even now the decision he had implored Éomer to make aggravated him. If it later turned into wicked error, it would be his fault that their army was obliterated at the hands of Saruman.

And so there was little else to do than wait. They dared not leave the security of Hornburg. The Orcs were content to cruelly taunt them. Aragorn knew eventually they would attack. If the endless blanket of night would ever lift, they might have a chance to defend themselves! The dawn seemed a distant and hopeless dream. He dared not sleep, not with such an ominous threat pacing the perimeter of their haven. The anticipation drove him mad, tickling his skin and his senses. He could not find patience, the calm elusive and teasing. Frustrated, he closed his eyes and licked his lips. He tried vehemently not to drive himself insane with his incessant thinking.

Éomer approached after a bit on light footfalls. Tentatively the Rider looked over the wall, peering into the shadows of the early sunrise. Before Hornburg was a misty field of blood, wreckage, and disaster. Aragorn opened his eyes as he felt Éomer shudder. "We have failed," Éomer moaned softly, "and it was my foolish judgment that drove my Lord forth in this reckless decision."

Aragorn felt his own guilt rise. He as well had convinced Théoden to make a defense of Helm's Deep. How many lives had been lost because of it? "We did not know," he rationalized after a moment. "How could we have?"

Éomer swallowed and sank to his knees quietly. Haldir looked up from his arrows momentarily. "Rohan without her king. Dark times are these! Who now shall lead us?" the prince wondered quietly. Aragorn had no answer, glancing towards Haldir. The Elf said naught, his knife moving along the thin shafts in his lap. Éomer rubbed his forehead tiredly. "We will perish here. The sun does not scare these Orcs, these monsters bred of Saruman's corruption. Nothing can save us!"

"Have faith," Aragorn implored, unable to stand to hear Éomer's depression.  _Have faith,_  he thought bitterly.  _Where am I to find it?_

Éomer did not speak, but it was clear his musings were the same. He looked young and lost, as if a child torn from his parent. Aragorn supposed that in a way he was. Then they fell silent, giving in to dismal contemplation, and the scrape of Haldir's knife grew loud.

Not long after the Elf perked up again. For a moment he sat stiffly, lifting his head to the sky. Then he stood, abandoning his task, and stepped to the wall. Aragorn watched him intently, and then rose himself, ignoring the stiff complaints of his weary muscles.

As the light of dawn slowly crept from the east, a grisly nightmare was unveiled. The Orc army, though reduced in size, crowded close to Hornburg. They clawed at the stone like ants desperate to climb and penetrate the inside. This alarmed Aragorn, but it was not what had alerted Haldir. The ranger gazed upon the Elf fixedly, watching his keen eyes scan what was before him.

Éomer seemed baffled. "What does the Elf sense?" he asked.

Haldir's hand came down, stopping the flow of conversation. All were silent, holding breath and heart. Then Aragorn heard it. It was a deep bellow of a horn, faint at first, but growing steadily louder. It was blown again and again, as if announcing a presence, as if proclaiming hope. Haldir's face broke. "The horn of Gondor!"

The announcement stirred them. Both Gimli and the Hobbits jolted to their senses. Aragorn's stomach leapt to his throat, and he looked to the west. There, amongst the trees! The low rumble of the horn, noble and melodic, shook Helm's Deep. Came thence was an army of men. Battered but resolute, they broke into a run with a proud battle cry, streaming across the field with weapons raised.

Éomer numbly shouted, "Lord Erkenbrand!" Aragorn turned to speak, but the prince was already sprinting down the stairs. "Rise, my friends, and see the dawn! We are saved! We are saved! Draw your weapons and face the enemy, for the Lords of Rohan ride into battle valiantly!"

A great clamor rose through Hornburg, and the tight tension snapped. Men were roused, pulling again swords from their sheaths. An elated call went through the troops, and they courageously resumed their hopes. Outside they launched as the battalion of Erkenbrand met them, surrounding the enemy. Trapped and surprised, the Orc army screamed and shrieked. They scattered, some trying to scale the wall, others fleeing haphazardly. With a great fervor, the battle again began. This time, though, the Orcs were the faction caught off their guard, and in a matter of minutes, the army of Rohan had nearly triumphed.

Aragorn narrowed his eyes as he saw a man dressed in leather with sandy brown hair and beard run in front of the men, his blade raised to strike. Rage boiled inside the ranger. He clenched a fist upon the wall of the fort as the archers of Rohan and Haldir let loose a fresh volley of arrows upon the Orcs below. His anger burned him.

Gimli spoke beside him, "Why do you hesitate, Aragorn? Let us join them!" He was about to run down the stairs and brandish his great axe, but his curiosity seemed to stay him. The blood rushed to the Dwarf's bearded face when he traveled the ranger's line of sight.

There, leading the charge of Rohan.  _Boromir._

Wrath snapped inside Aragorn. In blind fury he drew Andúril from its sheath. The sword sang of his rage and he turned, racing down the stairs. Outside men cheered and shouted at the retreating Orcs, exacting their revenge in a flurry of stabs and arrows. The throng of battle was thick, but it did not slow Aragorn. The world had closed in around him, and all he could do was run, pushing through Orc and man alike with an unrelenting drive.

He found what he sought. His restraint fled him in a brief moment of hot, uncontrollable anger, and he swung.

A cry of warning came from another soldier, alerting his victim of his move, and Boromir reacted with lightning reflexes, dropping the white horn he had held to this lips from his hand and twirling.

Andúril smacked against the blade of Gondor, and lightning seared between the two men.

Everything was still.


	10. Man and Monster

It was a strange thing to see two men once sworn as allies against a common foe now locked in a struggle on the field of a horrible battle. Against all fates there they stood, sword to sword, glare against piercing glare, and the air grew stiff. Sound was swallowed by the hungry tension. Though elsewhere man fought Orc, and swords sang through the misty morning air, here there was nothing but the startling sight. Inconceivable as it may be, it was true to all eyes as the men and the Dwarf watched with gaping stares.

In a split second the hold on them all broke, and Aragorn snarled, "You demon! Traitor!"

The words hurt Boromir deeply, but his fury would not allow him to retreat. He ground his feet into the loose soil for leverage, his arms shaking with the strain of holding the enraged ranger at bay. With a howl he pushed back Aragorn, breaking their stances, and he stumbled.

"Murderer!" cried Gimli from Aragorn's side. The stout Dwarf raised his bloodied axe. His face was the picture of a vengeful nightmare. But he was restrained by Aragorn's arm, which shot before him as if to take rights to the taking of Boromir's life. Boromir turned his eyes back to the heir of Isildur. He met fire and rage. Disgust. The glare cut into him, cleaving all hope from his heart, and in spite of himself, he found himself returning a look of loathing. There was an unspoken challenge and unfathomable hatred. He had hoped to make peace with Aragorn, but he knew now that such a dream had been folly; Aragorn would not trust him so easily. He had been a fool to expect anything but a fight!

By now the men of Rohan had arrived. He felt Erkenbrand come up beside him, winded, and heard the lord's old sword ring as it exited his sheath. "What is the meaning of this?" demanded the aging commander in a deep, angry tone. Neither Boromir nor Aragorn answered or broke their glares, holding their own weapons tightly. Time seemed to lean towards bloodshed.

A blond man, young but of high stature and adorned in dented and bloodied armor, jogged closer and stopped near Aragorn. His face broke in obvious confusion at the peculiar sight before him. Then the man's eyes fell to Erkenbrand. Before Boromir could speak, Erkenbrand shouted, "Drop your weapon, stranger, for you know not whom you threaten!" At this the commander raised his own blade.

Aragorn narrowed his eyes. "I know all too well," he hissed venomously.

Boromir's heart was thundering painfully in his chest, and his palms were clammy as tighter he clenched the hilt of his blade. For the pain of his spirit, he had to stop this fight! But his own pride and spite would not allow him to lower his guard or his blade, and he cursed himself for this failing. "I do not wish to fight you here," he declared lowly, finding his tone repulsively seething, "but I will if you do not stand down and allow me to explain!"

"Stand down?" repeated the blond soldier incredulously, irritation popping in his gaze. Another sword came free from its scabbard. "Who are you to question the will of this man, for he is the Elessar, the heir of Isildur?"

A surprised murmur went through the crowd of Erkenbrand's troops that had assembled in curiosity. Then Erkenbrand himself stepped into the divide between the two forces. "And you should learn well of thought before action, Éomer, son of Éomund, for this man who you brush aside is the son of Denethor and the steward of Gondor! We owe him our allegiance!"

Now came a hush of confusion and amazement that took hold tightly of the instant, and it did not easily release it. Weapons were the language of the silence, wavering in taut anxiety and distrust. Aragorn's infuriating glower had not abated, the dark gray eyes intense upon Boromir, and the son of Gondor felt his insides grind in agony.  _Drop your sword!_ his mind reproached sternly.  _Drop it now, and make the peace you seek! Let go of your pride! Stand down!_

His ego could not be defeated by his guilt and sorrow, no matter how smothering and demanding they became, and he narrowed his own gaze dangerously, refusing to either be bested or be made a coward. Hot anger made his form tight, each limb poised to strike.

It was Aragorn who finally broke the harsh moment. The ranger dropped his blade slowly, skeptically. But he did not lower his gaze. "Speak if you wish then," growled the ranger, "but your words will not weasel your way again into my trust."

Something stung Boromir's eyes, and he distantly realized it was the salt of his tears. He cursed himself for his weakness and his desires. The guilt welled up inside again, and he had to fight to maintain his resolve. Damn Aragorn for reducing him to such! "I would, but in the silence of privacy, for what I wish to say is a sensitive thing."

"You have lost that right, Boromir. Speak now!" Gimli raged.

He winced but said nothing. The words he had rehearsed endlessly to himself during his trek from Isengard were now lost in a maelstrom of awkward shame and attention, and he finally broke his gaze. His eyes fell to the trampled grasses, and the scene grew blurry with wetness.

"Speak," Aragorn ordered quietly. His voice held no compassion. "Where is the Ring?"

Boromir jerked. "Ring? What is the nature of this Ring that it might divide two men of solid loyality?" questioned Erkenbrand in frustrated urgency. He was ignored.

A silent moment came, laden with palpable rage and hurt. "Where is it, Boromir? There is no time to hesitate!" Aragorn snapped harshly.

"I know not," Boromir responded quickly, nearly interrupting the other. He looked up, clenching his fist tightly to stop its infernal shaking, and met Aragorn's eyes. The ranger was surprised, but it hardly seemed to show on his hard, stony face. "I would tell you if I did!"

Aragorn shook his head sharply. "Tell us what you do know, son of Denethor, and do so plainly, for I have not the patience to stand for your lies."

The rage boiled within him again, but he would not submit to its fiery release. He would not! "I had it but a few hours," he stated through clenched teeth, again averting his eyes. He could not stand to look at Aragorn's disapproval and disgust. "But it was lost. The Orcs did not find it."

"Lost?"

 _Tell him,_  his mind implored. He hesitated. This would incur the ranger's wrath like nothing else! It was this he had feared when wandering in a daze of pain and guilt! Could he now subject himself to the punishment he knew he so rightly deserved?  _Tell him!_ "Legolas took it," he declared finally. His eyes burned and his throat constricted around the words as though struggling to keep them within. "He wrested it from me and ran into the woods. When I again came upon him, the Ring was gone."

Aragorn's glare shattered. For the briefest moment it was still, and Boromir stood in a quivering expectation. Then the ranger demanded, "Where is Legolas? And Sam?"

Something suddenly fell into place for Boromir. It was so odd that never before had he considered it, for it seemed simple and stupidly obvious! Where had the Ring gone? What could Legolas have possibly done with it to so completely separate it from him? Why, but give it to another! If Sam was not among those of the Fellowship, then he was the obvious recipient! His mind reeled with the possibility. Surely Sam would seek to continue to Mordor. Brave Sam. Loyal Sam. He had to have the Ring! This undoubtedly explained Legolas' defiance; he was protecting Sam, holding deep inside him the secret of what the two had done for the sake of the Hobbit's safety. This knowledge caressed again his desires that he thought long dead, suffocated by his own nobility and shame. The desire to find the Ring. To touch it. To feel its glory again and to know the promise of its power. He had to find it. His heart thundered, his blood ran inside him in a rush of arousal, and his mind was a flurry of pleasurable memories.

Suddenly he was yanked forward, and he snapped from his reverie. The world crashed down upon him, and he was faced with the cold fury of Aragorn's frantic eyes. "Where are they?" he yelled, his fists balled in the cloth of Boromir's tunic.

Boromir was shaken by how easily the desire again had surfaced in him. "I…" he stammered, his senses overloaded with memory. He licked his dry lips. "Sam was not among the Uruk-hai. Never did they come upon him. This I swear!"

Aragorn slowly let him go, distrust and relief at once evident on his face. "And Legolas?" he asked carefully, never releasing Boromir from his gaze.

 _And Legolas…_  Boromir quivered and hesitated. This was the moment that would define him, and he stood at this crossroad confused and dazed. The consequences of the truth daunted him. Could he bear to be so exposed in front of Aragorn? This he could not escape. But which would be more painful, he wondered quickly. The truth was vile and undeniable; he had left Aragorn's closest friend to the sadistic whims of Middle Earth's most treacherous enemy. But a lie seemed so much worse. Yet this he could not completely turn away. He knew what he would say. The rancorous words he found burning at his lips and stinging his heart, and it alarmed him. He wanted to tell Aragorn that Legolas was dead. He wanted to hurt the ranger for his spiteful words and arrogant glares.  _And why should I not?_ he wondered bitterly. Surely Saruman would kill the Elf for his defiance, if he had not done so already. It would not be so much a lie in the end.

Then his heated blood turned cold and he shuddered. He felt the color drain from his face.  _What sort of monster have I become?_

"What have you done to him?" demanded Aragorn furiously, again advancing on Boromir and snatching away his dark and disturbing thoughts. The ranger was a black menace, a vicious and cruel punisher, and the cold war between Boromir's hurting anger and frightened conscience seemed at an impasse.

Silence. Then the stampede of falling feet. Others were coming. Men were running from the fort bearing bows and expressions of confusion. A blond, lithe Elf that Boromir recognized to be Haldir from Lórien swiftly and elegantly approached, his sword raised. This he dropped at the strange scene, but the stoic calm never fled from his face. Boromir had not to time to question the Elf's enigmatic appearance among the Fellowship, for behind Haldir came a quiet and familiar banter. Inside his heart broke.

Merry and Pippin pushed forward the crowd of men. When they saw him, they said no more. Upon their innocent faces was a mark of shock. Wide-eyed and amazed, they gazed upon him, as if unbelieving that anything at all had ever separated their group. Then Merry closed his mouth and his eyes grew to slits. In them Boromir saw a great many things: anger, fear, disgust… betrayal. Pippin shook his head blankly.

Pain spread all over his body, a horrible hurt that he had not the strength to face. Was this to be his greatest trial? To lay bare his terrible crimes before all he once held dear? He released a slow breath to steady himself, desperately struggling to still the racing of his straining heart.

"Answer!"

Quickly he stated, "I do not know what has become of him." It was the only thing he could think to say.

"You lie!" cried Gimli. "Speak the truth or my axe shall sever your serpent tongue!"

Rage spilled inside the man from Gondor, filling his spirit and burning his bones. "I do not lie," he hissed, glaring at the Dwarf. Gimli's face paled. "He would not tell us what he did with the One Ring. He defied and taunted instead of submitting. Saruman took him captive in Isengard." Boromir let loose a sharp, mad laugh. What he had left unsaid was achingly clear. "I did not know what the Elf expected to come of it! If he had only spoke the truth… If he had only had some sense!" The words came faster and faster, slurring with thick emotion, and he choked on a sob. "I tried to stop him from his foolery! I swear on the noble blood of my father, I pleaded with him, Aragorn! But he would not listen to me!"

The confession hung on the air, stunning the men of Rohan into silence. Aragorn appeared distressed and unbelieving, his expression slack and his complexion white. Then anger slowly crept into his gaze. "Is he still alive?" the quiet ranger then asked malevolently.

Moisture blurred Boromir's vision, but he found he could not force words from his mouth so intense was the pain, horror, and rage he felt inside. At his vacillation, Aragorn fumed. " _Is he still alive?_ "

He spat, "I know not!"

Then they were still, locked in time, and held prisoner cruelly by the fates to wallow in the horrid tidings of the moment. The steward stared upon the would-be king, and the king shook in ire and contempt. "You left him," seethed Aragorn, his eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. His words stank of a ruined trust and promised vengeance. "You detestable beast! You left him, did you not? You abandoned him to the tortures of the black, to Saruman's insanity, to…" Aragorn trailed off, his voice broken in pain, and he looked away.

Boromir drew courage enough to again gaze upon the ranger. "What would you have had me do, Aragorn?" he snapped. "There was naught I could in Saruman's stronghold! Alas, I wished for nothing more than to free him, but we would have both been slain! Those are not the actions of a wise man!"

"But they are the those of a friend," countered Aragorn.

_You are no friend of mine._

And he could hold in his anguish no longer. Quietly it spilled from his eyes. His last reserve of resolve disappeared in the cold truth of Aragorn's accusations and Legolas' words. How could he have done this? Legolas was gone. Legolas would die. His own hand had committed the foul deed. This was the undeniable reality, the cold truth that he could not erase for all the yearning of his soul!

But he did not speak. He did not have the bravery. He did not feel himself worthy. He closed his eyes and waited for Aragorn to fill the void within and out. "What is it you want, Boromir?" the ranger finally asked, ending the unending silence. "Do not ask forgiveness; it shall not come to you."

"I would not," said Boromir quickly in cold anger, once again at bristling at Aragorn's superiority. Though he ached inside for Legolas' plight, he still loathed Aragorn. "I seek only to offer aid as I once did. The Ring no longer holds my heart, and it will not again." The words bit at his conscience inside, but he ignored it. Slowly he lifted the blade of Gondor. Though it took great will, he lowered himself to one knee and bowed his head. He presented the weapon to Aragorn with both gloved hands. "My sword follows your lead."

The offer lingered alone in the field of the dead. Aragorn did not move or speak a moment. Though Boromir did not raise his head to look upon the ranger, he felt the worry and hate seep from the other's being. Then came footsteps, slow and deliberate. First just one man, his stride proud and cold. After others followed, shorter strides of a Dwarf, light feet of the Elf. Boromir cringed inside as they all walked away from him without so much as a word. Cruel treatment indeed!

There was shouting and more yelling returned, as though the tense scene before had never occurred, as though Boromir did not exist. Aragorn's voice rose over the din. "Prince Éomer, ready your men. We march to Isengard."

After was a volley of conflicting exclamations that Boromir cared not to hear. To the dejected man, the words meant nothing. The blade of Gondor fell idly to the grass from numb fingers. Tears streaked down his dirty face as the wind picked up, brushing his hair back with a soft caress. He raised his eyes.

Lingering before him were Merry and Pippin. He saw them, standing as though transfixed, staring at him as though he was less of a man and more of a ghost. He wanted to speak, to say something, anything, to assuage the growing division he felt between himself and the Hobbits. Yet there were no words that erase the treachery or the hurt. Never again would their faith fill that void.

His gaze was imploring, speaking at length of his regret where his lips could not, but it was brushed aside. Merry glared hatefully upon him. "Come on, Pip," he said quietly, grabbing his cousin by the arm before pulling him in the direction of the others. Pippin staggered and gaped a moment more, and then he too, the last hope Boromir had, abandoned him.

He was alone now. He feared he always would be. Both man and monster, both friend and foe. Neither trusted nor feared. Simply cast aside, unfaithful redemption rejected and unspoken apology refused. He knelt in the field, surrounded by the dead, and wept. They were the only ones that heard his pain.

* * *

Time passed for them all, but for the lone traveler of eastward intentions, it seemed to drag its feet.

Frodo had once loathed the undeniable silence of traveling alone, for though he was a mellow Hobbit, he enjoyed the companionship of his friends. He had changed much though since leaving the Shire, and now free from the weight of the One Ring, he found a strange strength coming from his solitude. The silence gave him a chance to heal, an opportunity to again find himself. During the strenuous journey from Rivendell to Caradhas, and then through Moria, he had reveled quietly in the whims and words of their motley group. He had benefited greatly from Aragorn's keen, strong eyes and from Gandalf's wise reassurances. He had laughed at Merry and Pippin's inane antics, and enjoyed Sam's silent loyalty. In Gimli's boisterous tales of Dwarven might he found entertainment, and from Legolas' unwavering protection and soft, calming songs he drew security. And Boromir had been tall and proud, strong and courageous in the darkest places of Moria yet laughing joyfully in wrestling with Merry and Pippin.

The memory turned sour with anger and bitterness. Again the man's corrupted words filled his mind.  _"None of us should wander alone, you least of all. So much depends on you."_

_Only Sam depends on me now._

_"I know why you seek solitude. You suffer. I see it day by day. Be sure you do not suffer needlessly. There are other ways, Frodo. Other paths that we might take."_

One small twist of fate had changed everything and veiled the sun.  _Other paths indeed!_

The memories came, though he did not want them, and he closed his eyes, stopping still in the forest. Boromir's rage flashed through him like lightning, intent upon sundering his calm.  _"If you would but lend me the Ring. Why do you recoil? I am no thief!"_  The warning inside had pierced him with panic then, but it had done little good. He had only stood mortified, watching as noble man morphed into a wretched monster. The kind concern in Boromir's eyes had been gone in a blink, replaced by the coldness of contempt and greed.  _"What chance do you think you have? They will find you. They will take the Ring and you will beg for death before the end! You fool!"_  The cold ground had then struck him.  _"If not for your sake I might have had a chance! It could have been mine! It should be mine! Give it to me! Give it to me!"_  A great weight on top of him, pummeling him, crushing him. He could not breathe. He could not even fight! Rough fingers ripping at his tunic, digging for the Ring. Then there was intense hurt at his forehead as Boromir's elbow at slammed into his temple, and he had fallen into blackness.

 _"One by one, it will destroy them all."_  He opened his eyes then, the pain slow to recede. It left a wake of weary destruction. Frodo sighed slowly, his shoulders sagging, and slumped to the forest floor. He pressed his back to the thick, rough trunk of an old tree. There he sat, struggling to catch his running breath and reclaim his composure. After a moment of gasping, he slowed his heart. Galadriel had been right. It had brought ruin to each of his friends and to himself. This task of destroying the Ring had been appointed to him, and he had failed.

A few tears fled from his bright blue eyes and ran down his pale cheeks, and he was infinitely glad in that instance that he was spared the worried and prying looks of the others. He knew they had always meant well in their concern, but he also knew they could not understand. The duty had not been appointed to any but him, and though he was glad for their assistance, it had not been their failure that had resulted in such disaster. They did not know the weight of the Ring. They did not know its sick call. They had not seen the Eye burning through their nightmares. What had happened to him, what he had taken upon himself, was nothing to which even his closest companions could relate. And as such, they had not understood his inevitable seclusion. Words of some comfort came to him.  _"You are a Ringbearer, Frodo Baggins. To bear a Ring of Power is to be alone."_  How true were Galadriel's words! Even now, without the burden of the Ring, he was on his own, in mind and body. This he could accept.

Though the few tears escaped, he quieted the quake of his heart and looked skyward. He might have failed the Fellowship, but he would not fail Sam.

Night was coming to the land. This was the fifth day since he had left the city of Rohan, he believed, and the sunset was always behind him each night, assuring him of his course. Though he knew not what to do when he reached his destination, he felt sure some sort of plan would come to him as he stealthily traveled east. He hoped to retrace the path Aragorn had taken in pursuit of the Orc army and find his way back to the shores of the Anduin and Amon Hen. He did not think he was very far away now. Albeit he held no wish to again visit those woods where fate had forsaken him, he hoped to find Sam there. He supposed it was silly to think that Sam had not left in all these days since the fateful fight, but he could not so easily cast this notion aside. At least there might be in that maze of forest some hint as to where Sam might have gone.

The shadows were growing longer as the sun sank to the horizon, and he was weary. Frodo glanced about slowly, taking stock of his surroundings. The trees were packed tightly together in a lattice of limb and leaf; it would provide adequate cover. He chose to rest in the thicket upon which he had inadvertently stumbled. This was a bit earlier than he normally retired from his day's walking, but he was extremely weary this night. Numbly he searched in his pack for the heavy woolen quilt he had taken from his room in Edoras. After producing that, he pulled out a bit of crusty bread, dried meat, and water. As he dined, he listened and watched. The woods were quiet and peaceful, and he felt no ill will from these trees. Legolas had once told him that each forest had a unique spirit all its own, and if one paid close enough attention, one could hear a melody of passing ages, of scars of fire and weather, of spring breezes and winter snows and all the creatures that had come to pass within the shelter of the trees. He had not the skill of the Elf to detect such an intricate and delicate thing, but he felt secure enough here in the sights of these ancient soldiers.

A long time passed in which Frodo did not think, content to simply feel, his mind blank and his expression impassive. A chilly breeze brushed by him, and he shrugged deeper into the warm blanket, leaning back into the embrace of the tree. The wind took with it his strength and his worries, and he looked up to the sky. The sun had disappeared, leaving the world in blackness. It was brilliant this night. Dotted with thousands of tiny specks of distant stars, the entire dome overhead seemed to twinkle gently. With tired eyes he sluggishly tried to count all the flickering lights. When they became too numerous for his exhausted mind, he gave up with a small smile and closed his eyes. How many times had he and Sam done the same stretched out in the cool fields of the hills of the Shire? It had become a summer habit, a quiet game they shared, laying in contemplative silence beneath the celestial blanket, counting and lazily dreaming.

His last thoughts before drifting to sleep were of Sam and the stars.

* * *

Sam released a slow breath. A longing suddenly pricked him inside, and he raised his eyes. Though black clouds covered the sky, through the patchwork a few stars poked their light, shedding it silently and peacefully. The shy Hobbit stood still then, halting in his weary march, and watched the wispy tendrils of the clouds sweep over the stars as if in a caress. A hot wind came by that smelled of foul things. A queer feeling came to him. For the briefest of moments, he thought he heard the sound of Frodo's laugh on the breeze. Surely it was his imagination, but the sense had seemed so vivid that he unwittingly mistook it for truth, and he turned to glance behind him.

Nothing but black rock and burnt ground. The hope that had inevitably been borne from the momentary impression crashed down, bringing with it his spirits, and his face fell. He lowered his gaze to the cracked, dried ground beneath his feet. Anew he began to miss his dear friend. Worries he had set aside for the sake of concentration on their journey returned with fierce demands, and his mind was swept away in melancholy. What was Frodo doing now? Surely Strider had kept them safe if they had survived the battle at Amon Hen. Strider would let no harm come to Frodo as long as the ranger had strength left within him to fight. Though the belief was entirely logical, he found it difficult to completely trust it. So much was unknown, and he had never been the optimist.

He squinted as he blankly stared into the black shadows. A thousand fond memories came to him, each equally enticing, and in their peace he basked. He recalled times of the Shire, of sharing a meal with his friend, of fishing and dancing, of ale and good pipeweed and stargazing. Through his memories inexplicably he felt connected to Frodo, though the distance between them was great. Sam knew relief then. Though he could not explain it, he knew Frodo was safe. He knew his dear friend was of solid mind and body. He sensed the other as clearly as he did Gandalf's great form ahead. Indeed he had worried much, and this was a sweet reprieve for his heart!

It was gone as quickly and as strangely as it had come, and he came back to his body. Yet he was grateful for this strange gift, this unexpected blessing on a dark night.

"Samwise, you tarry. Are you well?" came Gandalf's deep tones.

Sam startled a bit, and then blushed as he turned to meet the wizard's gaze. "Aye, Gandalf, sir. I was just thinking of Mister Frodo." The Hobbit glanced back behind him wistfully once more, as if to look again for Frodo's aura.

Gandalf chuckled quietly in spite of the dreary situation. "Friendship crosses many miles, my boy." Then he grew still. At his silence, Sam turned. He appraised the old wizard with narrowed and concerned eyes. Gandalf seemed troubled, his brow furrowed, his expression nearly a wince.

Sam grew perplexed and frightened. "Gandalf?"

The wizard released a slow breath. His voice lost its merriment. "A black air has come to us tonight," said Gandalf. He met the Hobbit's meek gaze. "The others are in turmoil, I sense." Panic pounded inside Sam, but he dared not say a word at Gandalf's intense visage. "Yes, it is a dark time for one."

"One," whispered Sam softly, the color draining from his face. He shook his head. "What can we do, Mister Gandalf?" he then asked. He could not keep the want from his tentative voice. He was imploring the wizard to lift these bitter tidings!

Gandalf released a slow breath and looked down. His white robes shone like the brightest star in the black world around them. "Nothing, I fear, for we are far too distant to be of any aid, and the goals of our minds must outweigh the pains of our hearts. If we turn back, a great sacrifice will have been made in vain."

Sam did not completely understand the old man, but saw enough reason in Gandalf's words to abandon his desire to somehow be of assistance to his friends. Obviously the strange air that had brought relief to him had carried dissonance to Gandalf. A curse veiled in comfort? That was a cruel trick!

Again Gandalf broke his reverie. A spot of wise reassurance had crawled back into his tone, and Sam met his strong eyes. "Fear not, Sam. Hope comes to them. In strange forms it may seem, but surely it does."

As they began to walk once more, Sam yearned for Gandalf's words to be true.

* * *

There came a scratching. So deep in slumber was Frodo that he did not notice the sound. The woods were eerie and quiet, as if waiting for the commotion to break the silent night once more. It did, and this time it was quite a bit more pronounced and heavy, like footfalls scraping along dried leaves. A shadow was creeping about the trees, slithering like a snake.

When the noise approached, Frodo stirred from his sleep. The frightening sound invaded his ears, and he sat up quickly, his pulse immediately jumping and his stomach clenching. He held his breath and strained his ears, his gaze frantically darting. It took a moment for him to shake away the hazy remnants of sleep. The blur of black took form in front of him, turning from terrifying apparitions into thick trunk and limb, as his eyes adjusted to the sparse illumination. But the sound came again and the frightened and panicked Hobbit rolled from his bed of the forest floor.

Frodo swallowed uncomfortably and turned in place quickly as he reached the center of the small thicket. Leaves swayed in the breeze, causing his heart to lurch at nothing, and he shook in fear. What was coming? His gooseflesh prickled as the noise became unbearably loud. A dragging, sliding gait it must have been, crackling the leaves loudly. Yet the shadows became no substance, neither of man nor demon, and he waited anxiously, cold sweat dribbling down his cheeks. His fear burned within him. He should never have left Aragorn's side!

Then he felt a weight at his hip, and common sense spurred his paralyzed mind and body into action. With a grunt he ripped Sting from her sheath, the sword blade coming free with a clear and satisfying sound. He nearly dropped it, his fingers clammy and clumsy, but maintained his grasp. The blade glowed like a spike of silver, but without the ethereal blue that clung to its edges with the nearness of Orcs. This simultaneously relieved and alarmed him, for if it was not an Orc had come upon his camp, it might be a friendly traveler meaning no harm. It could as well be something far worse.

"Come no closer!" he called into the darkness, forever shifting his stance as each shadow seemed equally suspicious. The rustling leaves stopped a moment, leaving a chilling emptiness. But the visitor was obviously undaunted, and soon after the approach resumed. The Hobbit gritted his teeth and felt his body shake. "I mean it!" he shouted again, forcing bravado into his voice. He lowered Sting into a defensive position to emphasize his words. "Who are you? Tell me, for I am armed!"

No answer. Frodo was beginning to lose his patience to his terror, his calm and his strength fleeting. Momentarily he considered running, but he quickly banished the idea. It would do him no good; if a creature fouler than an Orc had found him, he doubted he would be able to elude it.

A rustle of brush came from behind him, and he ripped around, wide-eyed. There, that shrub shook with movement! With a howl, the young Hobbit thundered forward, Sting leveled to strike. In the split second of his charge, the shadows took the form of a hunched being. He had not the time to be surprised as he came upon it. An ear-piercing shriek disturbed the oppressive quiet, and Frodo stopped.

There, barely inches from the dangerously sharp edge of his weapon, were eyes of a disturbing pale green. The lids flicked open and closed like that of a reptile. He recognized them immediately, and shock coursed through him. "Gollum…" he whispered hoarsely.

"Please, don't kill us!" came a cry. The words were more a hiss than anything, the "s" sound elongated with a serpent's accent. A strange glint that Frodo supposed to be recognition shone in the gaze. "Baggins," he hissed. Icy fear and hot repugnance claimed Frodo. He narrowed his eyes dangerously. "Good Hobbit, fair Hobbit, please spare us,  _gollum!_ "

The wretched creature was shivering in fear, and his thin, emaciated black arms came up to guard his lowered face. Frodo backpedaled, surprised at the strange appearance. His racing heart slowed a bit, but he would not lower his guard. Gollum had for days relentlessly pursued the Fellowship through Moria. He was a sick and twisted demon, pathetic in his obsession. He had once perhaps had the mind of a man, but the Ring had reduced him to nothing more than a lowly fiend. Frodo was disgusted. "What is you want of me?" he asked softly, though the answer was obvious.

The big green eyes gazed soullessly upon him. "The Ring…" he moaned. "Please give it to us… kind Hobbit. Return it to Sméagol, my precious… Yes, give it!" A grimy hand shot forth.

Frodo found himself snarling in hatred and he threatened Gollum with Sting, pushing the bright blade closer. "I don't have it," he snapped in anger. "I don't any more!"

Then Gollum let free a high-pitched wail. "Don't have it? No, don't have it! Give it to Sméagol! Give it!"

Murky revulsion sickened Frodo. "You'll never have it now, Gollum, do you understand?" He was surprised by the cruelty in his own voice, but he could not stifle it. His anger and hatred would not let him. "It's gone forever from you!"

For a moment the creature did naught but weep and snivel, still hidden in the foliage of the bush. A strange pity bit at Frodo enough to make the mellow Hobbit regret his harsh words. He thought it odd that he should feel sympathy for the beast that had betrayed his location to Sauron, forcing him to flee from the Shire. But Gandalf's wise words filled his mind. He had felt this rage before, when he had spotted Gollum trailing them through the winding and dark paths of Moria. This he had expressed to the wizard, but Gandalf had been far from accepting of his mindset.  _"Many that live deserve death; some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them, Frodo? Do not be too eager to deal out death and judgment. Even the very wise cannot see all ends. My heart tells me that Gollum has some part to play yet, for good or evil, before this is over."_

Frodo licked his lips, remorseful of what he had said. "You do not need to follow it any more," he said quietly. He returned Sting to his sheath, but warily keep his hand close.

Gollum sobbed a moment more, but then he choked out, "Lost are we,  _gollum!_ Traveled to a great river we did but could not pass. Could not pass! Good Hobbit help us, yes? Help Sméagol find the Ring!"

Frodo tried to make sense of what he said. Clearly the creature had followed the Fellowship to the Anduin but had been unable to cross the river and reach the eastern shore. He wondered what drove Gollum, what directed his feet. How did he know where to find the Ring? And did this mean that the Ring was in Mordor? Frodo disregarded his thoughts and reminded himself that the evil trinket was no longer his concern. He then sighed. "I'm not looking for the Ring, understand."

Gollum grew quiet, disturbingly so. Then without warning the fiend leapt from the bush, pouncing upon the surprised Hobbit. Frodo yelped in surprise as a long white knife gleamed wickedly in the starlight. It snapped down towards him, and he hardly had but a second to sidestep. The sharp edge grazed his arm, slicing his tunic and drawing a bit of blood. Crazed with fear, he drew his own weapon once more, but barely had time to rightly defend himself, for Gollum was deceptively agile and was on him again in a mere moment. He hit the ground roughly with the creature on top of him, hissing and spitting, struggling to drive the knife down into the captive Hobbit. Frodo caught Gollum's wrist and pushed with all his strength, forcing the attacking hand back and the quivering blade from his own gasping throat. After a few moments of wrestling, he managed to slam his own hand up, ramming the hilt of Sting into the creature's slimy head. Gollum gave a squeal and fell limp on top of him.

Frodo was gasping, greatly shaken, tears of panic and fear filling his eyes. Then he scrambled from beneath the unconscious beast, untangling their limbs and scooting to the other edge of the thicket. There he stood, trying to regain his breathing, fighting against his fear. His arm began to sting, but he could not tear his terrified eyes from the prone beast but a few feet from him. He swallowed uncertainly as the forest grew still again. Gollum did not move. Had Frodo killed him?

On quiet feet, the scared Hobbit slowly neared the body. Sting still clenched in his sweaty hand, he knelt tentatively beside it, expecting at any moment for the beast to again attack him. Yet this Gollum did not do, unmoving and as still as the shadows once more. His small chest rose and fell, indicating breathing and life, but this did not relieve Frodo. With shaking fingers and wavering courage, he rapidly snatched the creature's weapon from the dirty, limp hand. Then he skittered back a safe distance.

He glanced at the acquired weapon. It was strikingly familiar to him. The hilt was meant for fingers longer than his, and the blade was slender, elegant, and of the purest metal. The pale, sleek knife glowed. Upon the hilt was an inscription in Elvish that he could not read. It then made sense, and the knowledge chilled and upset him. This was Legolas' knife.

Bile burned in the back of his throat, and the forest spun. For a moment he thought he might be sick, his knees suddenly rubbery and weak. Yet he did not fall. Vaguely he questioned why Gollum should have such a thing. Obviously he must have found it in the woods of Amon Hen as he searched for means to ford the Anduin. Did not this vile creature hate all things Elvish? Once the Hobbit had heard such. Still, if that were so, why would he have taken the lost knife? Truly this demon was of contradictions! Both man and monster, both mad and driven, both hating and loving.

He held the knife tighter until his palm ached. A flood of emotions overwhelmed him. Dizzily his mind reeled, and he could bear to stand still no longer. Frodo jammed Sting back into the scabbard. Then he ran. He did not look back as he tore through the forest, leaving Gollum to the shadows. For a long time he fled, driving his body beyond its limits, his heart heavy with despair. When he finally rested, great distance had been placed between the nightmare and himself. He wept quietly, tightly holding hand clenching Legolas' knife to his breast, as he slumped against a tree. His battered body ached, and his soul was bleeding. What a fool he had been to trust his pity! His ragged breath was so loud in the silence. The peace of the forest seemed false. Tonight he would not sleep again.


	11. A Chance Meeting

Through the vast woods of Fangorn rode the twins of Thranduil. Each upon a horse of white, they traveled silently. Even the ancient trees about them, thick and gnarled with time and ivy, were still; rarely did a breeze penetrate the brush to caress the green leaves into singing. It was just as well, though, for words were not needed to convey the tension and yearning of the Elves. Long had they traveled under sun and moon, over the lands of Middle Earth. They had not stopped for rest, and meals had been consumed meagerly in transit. The forest knew of their weariness and their fears as easily as they knew each other's, for this was an old and wise place, and its spirit, keen and comforting, was kin to the love of the Elves.

Aratadarion closed his eyes a moment and listened. His horse plodded onward, a bit behind his brother's, but he did not feel the slight dips and turns of the leafy brown forest floor. Weakly he touched it, but the quiet of the trees seemed to amplify the sensation, and with all his being he lurched forth inside and grabbed the strange sound. Then he cradled it quietly within, and winced at the agony and fear of the weak aura as it hurt his own heart through common blood. He opened his eyes once more and looked ahead. "Legolas is in great pain," he declared quietly. The timid tone of his voice seemed so loud in the heavy silence.

"I know," answered Astaldogald. Though he tried, the Elf could not mask his concern with arrogance, and a shudder crept to proud shoulders.

Aratadarion watched his twin in worry, prodding his mare forward with gentle hands. "Do you suppose-"

"I know not," came the icy response, and Astaldogald shot Aratadarion a sharp glare before looking forward once more. Aratadarion grimaced, the expression shattering the usual peace of his slender face, and looked down. An odd anxiety had come between them, and with every mile they traveled further south it grew deeper and hungrier, devouring smile and song and leaving nothing but a void of humorless conversation and aching hearts. Aratadarion knew what was troubling his twin, for it was easy enough to discern. Even though more than two weeks had passed since they had left their home, Astaldogald still obviously bristled in memory of the sharp words of their father. His damaged ego and wounded heart would be slow to heal, and facing now this arduous trail and monstrous task would do little to mend his spirit. Rarely did the twins speak, for Astaldogald was content to wallow in his anger and sadness, and Aratadarion did not know how to comfort this brother.

Finding their path had not been difficult at all. On boats they had ventured down the Anduin, alternately rowing and resting, following the ancient trail to Lórien marked by Silvan Elves. There they had taken a brief respite. The Lady of the Golden Wood had been expecting their arrival, which did not surprise Aratadarion. A few occasions in the past, before Legolas had been born, the House of Thranduil had visited upon Galadriel and Celeborn during times of peace and war. Though now a distant memory, Aratadarion recalled being amazed at the great city of Lórien and her people. Mostly, though, the Lady of the Golden Wood had enthralled him, for Galadriel was both powerful and beautiful, her face infinitely wise yet ageless as the sun. Her gaze was at once piercing and powerful, yet gentle and calming. She knew much about men, Elves, and Dwarves, of good, evil, and the powers that direct the fate of the trees, the land, the air, and the woods, and she understood heart, soul, and mind with such ease that it was truly belittling to behold.

She sought their audience and the two weary travelers complied gratefully, hoping that she would direct their vigilant search. Indeed she did. With eyes that seemed weary with worry and toil, she told them many disturbing things. She spoke of the fall of Mithrandir into the shadows of Moria and the resting of the broken Fellowship within the borders of Caras Galadhon. Of their youngest brother's plight she said little, understanding that they knew better than she of his pain and clearly not wishing to aggravate the tenuous peace they had. Only she spoke of his capture by Saruman's deranged army of Uruk-hai, who were not threatened by light or life. They had taken him to Isengard and there he was held prisoner deep in Orthanc. The events surrounding the fall of Legolas were left unshared, and though Astaldogald sought answers, Aratadarion knew that the information they wished was not theirs to possess. Their duty was not to the world of men or to the Ring; theirs was to the safety of their kin. The introspective Elf knew that if fate should change their quest, the knowledge would come to them when appropriate. He did not doubt that they would find their way.

Thus refreshed, replenished, and blessed by the Lady Galadriel, they set out once more upon gifts of horses. That had been days before. Unspoken concerns intensified in Aratadarion's heart as they rode now. For hours his worries had grown louder, as the forest of Fangorn became darker and deeper. Its voice had changed from a condoling whisper to a discomforting jabber, which grew more deafening the further they traveled. These woods were troublesome. He had wanted to avoid Fangorn, but it had clearly been the quickest route between Lórien and Isengard. The Elf prince was unnerved by these ancient, gnarled trees, for their spirit was strong and vociferous, and it called to him in a language he did not recognize. He glanced at his twin, but Astaldogald's eyes were distant and clearly preoccupied with private matters. He wondered if Astaldogald acutely sensed the eerie soul of this place as he did. It was not exactly a warning, but neither was it a welcome. Aratadarion sighed quietly. Calm he could not find, not with both the pain of his brother haunting his heart and this strange dissonance. He wished for nothing else than to be rid of Fangorn.

He then chastised himself. Yearning for the uncertain was definitely unwise! Though these lands left him unsettled, surely what was beyond held no relief. What were they to do, he wondered frightfully, when they reached Isengard? What would they find there? How could the two of them alone expect to contend with Saruman's forces? From Galadriel's words it was easy to conclude that the fallen wizard had concocted a great, vile army. Without doubt it would stand between them and their captive brother. Aratadarion winced. Certainly they would fail! Though he despised himself for his pessimistic weakness, he could not help his thoughts. He was no good with a bow or sword. Unlike his brothers, he had no keen eyes for battle and his reflexes were sluggish. If a skirmish erupted, he would only be detrimental to Astaldogald. His father would have done better to send an Elf stronger than he!

But he said nothing of his concerns. Undoubtedly his twin, if he was not too engulfed by his own grievances, sensed his plight. Astaldogald had said nothing to assuage his pain. Thus Aratadarion was left to his own dismay about Fangorn and Isengard, and about Legolas. Truth be told, he was afraid of what had been forced upon his younger brother to make him so loudly and widely radiate his anguish. Legolas, if nothing else, was a proud Elf. Not often had he ever shown weakness or fear, at least before his brothers. Aratadarion could understand why, and no matter how he twisted it, he could not make the reason seem silly. To seem vulnerable before Astaldogald and Vardaithil, the former especially, would cast doubt onto Legolas' attitudes. Weak in body meant weak in mind. Only this view did Legolas share with their father. Aratadarion remembered Legolas' youth clearly. He had been an inquisitive child, interested at every minute detail of every tree and creature. Aratadarion had held a quiet connection with Legolas then, sharing with his brother the many things he had learned and the many things he wished to study. Legolas had been an avid listener. Even now Aratadarion could recall his younger sibling's wide blue eyes, open with admiration and affection. As Legolas had grown, his beliefs began to diverge from those of his brothers, and the soft friendship Aratadarion had shared with him had faded as the division grew. It was then that the youngest son of Thranduil had developed this proud, secluded, strong air, and never again did he allow any of his brothers to detect his sorrow or pain. Distressed, Aratadarion lowered his head. In this he had always faulted himself. He had felt the estrangement festering long before any of the others chose to recognize it. Yet, he had done nothing, torn between the fierce loyalty he constantly held for his twin and the innocent affection he had for Legolas. Had he simply intervened then, before the arguments and hateful words! He could not imagine the way the present might be altered if he could somehow remedy this error of the past. Surely Legolas would not have so drastically turned from a loving child to an independent and cool Elf. Surely he would not have sought solace in the House of Elrond, in the confidence of a mortal. Surely his bitter heart would not have swayed him into participating in this foolish quest. Surely he would not have fallen!

The quiet cries grew louder in his mind, and Aratadarion sighed slowly. He doubted if Legolas would ever again regard him with those big, loving eyes. Friendship lost in a feud between kin was never easily regained.

The old trees swayed in an unexpected breeze, and the discomfort of his mind increased. His mount was skittish, stepping hesitantly, and he laid a comforting hand upon its neck. "This strange feeling grows stronger," he murmured quietly to his twin ahead. Astaldogald slowed his own horse, which was as riled as well. Then he turned to regard his twin. "These woods are most unusual," Aratadarion declared, suddenly feeling sheepish at Astaldogald's scrutinizing gaze.

"You are simply too accustomed to the trees of Mirkwood," remarked the other a bit angrily. "Calm your nerves."

The meek Elf dropped his gaze and said no more despite the swirling agitation within him. Vehemently he forced his thoughts elsewhere, away from the annoying premonitions vexing him. The pain and anxiety of his heart would not easily be brushed aside, though, and as they continued he succumbed again to it.

Hours passed quietly. Then ahead there came a noise. It was not a natural sound of the forest, though to any save an Elf it would appear no more than a rustle of a leaves against the wind and the crack of limb to limb. Aratadarion lifted his head and looked forward keenly, his eyes scanning the dark woods for the source of the sound. It seemed abnormal to his ears, as though made by a force greater than the breeze or simple creature. He reined in his horse and listened.

A great whoosh resounded behind him, and Aratadarion jumped in his saddle in fright and shock. The horse beneath him reared and instinctively he grasped the leather reins tighter to control the startled beast and maintain his seat. In the moment he floundered, his twin drew his long, white sword. This he held high in threat. "Step forward and announce yourself," demanded Astaldogald in a deep voice, "and do so quickly!"

Aratadarion could scarce believe what he saw, for what emerged from the maze of trunk and limb behind them was neither man nor beast. It was a great hulking creature, taller than Elf. Its skin, if it could even be called that, was a strange grayish brown color and was mottled and marked like bark. Ancient eyes regarded them amusedly. Even more amazing than the appearance of such a being was what followed, breaking the silent moment with a deep rumble. " _Hoom!_ Elves, I think! My eyes do not deceive me in this! Elves! Hmm?"

The twins shared a short look. Aratadarion had seen two ages of mysteries and magic, and never before had he come upon such an amazing creature. He thought quickly. Lore and myth abruptly became reality. Long ago his people had come to sing of this old and peculiar race in great ballads. They were the Ents, the tree people, beings of the ancient world, of original creation, and in this, kin to Elvenfolk. They were obscure, though, lost in the passage of millennia. Vaguely Aratadarion remembered a fable that spoke of the disappearance of the Ents into the weathered forests of Middle Earth. Never had he dreamed he would come across one!

"Humph!" came again the baritone grumble, and the Ent stepped closer with what could only be described as the creak of wood. "Kindly lower your blade, and I shall ask you a question, for you travel in my forest! Good Elf folk! It has been many years since one of your kind as come to these lands  _hoom!_ Now, do tell, who are you and why have you come hence?"

Aratadarion was too stunned to speak. He glanced at his twin. Though Astaldogald dropped his sword and returned it to its scabbard with a metallic ring, he clearly did not lower his guard. For a moment neither Elf spoke, both abruptly shocked and perplexed. Aratadarion wondered if his twin was remembering the same folklore. Then Astaldogald seemed to resign himself. "I am Astaldogald of Mirkwood," he announced proudly, his face stern, "and the other is my brother, Aratadarion."

"Mirkwood, hmm?" the Ent repeated. Then he laughed loudly. "That was once a fine, old forest, it was! Tell me, Astaldogald of Mirkwood, how fares it? It has been long since I have left this place!"

The twins again gave each other a curt and confused glance. "It fares well enough," said Astaldogald tentatively. "Come, I have honored your request. Can you not honor mine? It does perplex me to see an Ent, a creature thought to be more legend than substance, before me. What may we call you?"

The Ent smiled, if Ents could do such a thing. "Not only Elves, but Elf children no less!" He gave a grumbling chuckle that, though sounding heavy and deep was unusually light-hearted, and it eased the horses and Aratadarion. Astaldogald seemed rather peeved at the remark about their age, his eyes narrowing, but he wisely chose for once to say nothing. Aratadarion prayed his twin would not anger the Ent. This old being radiated a warm, friendly shine, but he still loathed falling from its good graces. "What may you call me? What may you, indeed!" The Ent seemed to contemplate a moment with a most comical tip of its head. "I have many names, you see. For two Elf children, I shall be Treebeard. Yes, Treebeard is a good name,  _hrum!_ "

This time Astaldogald could not quell his indignity, and Aratadarion flinched as the harsh words fled his twin's impetuous mouth. "We are not children, Treebeard. Speak kindly, for you address two princes of the Kingdom of the Silvan Elves."

Another amused chuckle reverberated through the still forest. "Elf princes!  _Hoom!_ Elf children! You are indeed a funny creature, Astaldogald of Mirkwood! Tell me of your father, the king, then. Mayhap once I might have known him."

Astaldogald's expression grew taut in annoyance. "We do not have time for this." He then began to turn, directing his horse back upon their southerly course. Aratadarion winced at the sting in his twin's arrogant tone and hesitated.

"Hold your haste, Astaldogald of Mirkwood, and keep your peace! You must understand, hmm? It has been so long since I have met another, and the Ents here grow so tree-ish, you see. Tree-ish Ents! You would humor me, would you not, Elf prince? Tell me why you are so rushed, if nothing else!  _Hoom!_ "

Aratadarion did not know what to say, if anything. He doubted it was wise at all to divulge the nature of their quest to such a strange creature. Though he found it unlikely that the Ents had allied themselves with Orthanc, it was not impossible and he did not know enough of them to cast the notion completely aside. Numbly he watched Astaldogald, imploring silently that his twin would have the intuition to make such a decision. Finally Astaldogald spoke. "We travel to Isengard," he declared quietly, almost shamefully.

The reaction in Treebeard was immediate and astounding. The Ent seemed to recoil and Aratadarion thought he saw disgust flash in those great, earthy eyes. "Isengard? Say no more, for I will have naught to do with you."

Astaldogald must have sensed the Ent's disapproval as well, for he was quick to supplement more information to assuage the sudden tension. "We are no friends to Saruman the White. He has taken captive our youngest brother."

Treebeard was silent a moment, as if digesting what they revealed. Then he let out a slow  _hoom_ , almost like a sigh. Aratadarion watched the queer creature intently. "I see now why you rush." A quiet pain entered his voice. "A great shadow has come to these lands. It is a sour thing that poisons the trees and the rivers. I have smelled it and tasted it.  _Hoom!_ It is a vile thing!" The Ent seemed vexed and angered, as if this news of Legolas' imprisonment was the final bit of bad fortune that he could tolerate. "Tell me what you know of it, Elf princes. You must, you see, for I have had many occasions in the past to converse with Saruman the Wise. Then he was a kind and judicious creature, if not a bit arrogant and cunning. He knew much even in his youth, and this and more he many a time shared with me when he came upon my forest. What could be so evil as to twist logic into madness? What say you, Elf princes? What do you know of it?"

The twins again shared a glance. What a strange meeting! Aratadarion swallowed uncomfortably, torn by his own curiosity and the press of time upon him. Surely, though, if this great and ancient creature wanted to speak to them, then nothing they might do could deter him, because the Ent was both powerful and intimidating. Astaldogald, despite his irritation, must have had a similar thought, for he began to explain. "We know less than we would like. Our brother, Legolas, was intimately involved in the fight against this shadow of which you speak."

"Legolas?" mused the Ent. "That is a fine Elf name! Legolas… a gift to the trees, surely! The old trees of Mirkwood, fine friends were they…" The Ent trailed off, almost nostalgically, before sighing once more. "Come, Elf princes, and sit. Rest your horses and your hearts. Inform me of everything, if you would."

They did so, Astaldogald, though wary and irked by the lost time, speaking freely of the dire circumstances come to Middle Earth. To the Ent they told what they had learned from Galadriel about the flight of the Ring to Mordor, about the cracking of its Fellowship, and about the fall of Mithrandir. Upon hearing this Treebeard's eyes flashed in first anger and then sorrow. "Gandalf lost?" he repeated incredulously. "Gandalf lost? Oh, but for all the good of Middle Earth such a thing should never come to pass!"

"We know not the circumstances of it," said Astaldogald. The nimble Elf sat upon a patch of mossy earth cross-legged. "The Lady of the Golden Wood would not say what felled him."

The Ent glumly remarked, "She is both wise and powerful. If she has seen it, it must be true!  _Hoom!_ " Aratadarion bowed his head and closed his eyes. "Such a great creature was Gandalf. A blasphemous curse this is! For many years we Ents have had occasion to speak with him. He was a kind Ent-friend!"

"As he was to the Kingdom of Mirkwood," Astaldogald added softly. "Many an Elf has been eased by the intelligent words of Mithrandir." Aratadarion glanced upon his twin and saw something that not often appeared upon the other. His brother seemed almost crestfallen, as though he pained for a creature of different making. "It was he who led the Nine Walkers. It was his strength that directed them. Our brother held him in the highest of esteems."

"Yes, hmmm, yes," mused Treebeard, "and I will not sit idly by any longer." The massive creature towered over the twins, his shadow dark and cool, and Aratadarion gazed upon him in awe. "Ents have grown tree-ish, tree-ish, you see, and that is a bad thing.  _Hoom!_ Maybe this will be call enough to bring energy to ward away their lethargy!"

"Tree-ish?" Aratadarion softly questioned. The Ent had mentioned it before, but the term was still shrouded in confusion.

The creature grinned. It was grotesquely fascinating sight. "Ah, so the quiet Elf does speak! You are a meek one, Aratadarion of Mirkwood, but you are fair and compassionate. Gladly I will explain for you. We are old, we Ents, and many of us have grown weary of this world, hmm. Long ago, as you Elves sing, the Ent-wives disappeared. We searched everywhere, all across this land, for the Ent-wives, you see, but never again did we meet them. Since many of us have grown slow and rigid, tree-ish, hmm?" Treebeard's tone grew deep and tight. "Saruman shall pay for what he has done to us. Breathe the air, Elf children?  _Hoom!_ What do you smell?"

For a moment, Aratadarion did nothing but concentrate on his senses as he inhaled deeply. He shoved aside the worry and doubt clouding his mind, and in doing so, became aware of peculiar yet rank odor. His brow furrowed in confusion as he looked back to the Ent. The quiet breeze that picked its way through the maze of Fangorn held tidings of a rotten deed. It turned his stomach. Treebeard regarded him with knowing but angry eyes. "Yes, little Elf. You sense what I speak. For many moons has that stench poisoned our forest. Saruman is contaminating all the lands of Isengard with his evil. Many tree-friends have died. I dare say some tree-ish Ents may have perished as well, but of that I cannot be sure."

"What has he done?" Astaldogald asked, his piercing gaze narrowed angrily. He too seemed unnerved by what he smelled. "The Lady Galadriel spoke of a vicious army of man-Orcs that he bred."

"That surely and more, Astaldogald of Mirkwood," stated Treebeard, "for the winds are sour and the water is fetid. The corruption of his wisdom has spread to his lands, and this I cannot longer tolerate." The massive Ent again seemed to release a slow breath that smelled of moss and morning dew. When he exhaled, the force of it ruffled the twins' hair. "I thought before that I could ignore,  _hoom!_ What can one Ent do, after all? Even as one as old as I? But Gandalf lost… and your brother imprisoned. An Elf child in such darkness! These treacheries I cannot overlook!"

They were silent a moment, and the forest was alive in Treebeard's anger. Limbs smacked against each other, and the leaves screamed. Aratadarion glanced at his brother, awed by the creature before them, and uncertain of what now lay before them. "You would help us?" he asked quietly and mildly, afraid that his words would prove false and that the Ent would be insulted by such a suggestion.

The great being gave a grave smile. "That I will, Aratadarion of Mirkwood, for we share a common enemy. And it was the Elves after all that brought the gift of language to we Ents, hmm? The tree and the Elf are not so distant." Treebeard looked thoughtful, unhurried and certainly unconcerned. "But first we must hold a meeting." Then the great creature waddled and began to walk back to where they had come.

"A meeting?" Astaldogald repeated incredulously, standing quickly. Aratadarion cringed inwardly at his twin's irritated tone. He prayed the Ent would take no offense, for they would of course need assistance. They alone would never be able to defeat Saruman's forces within their black territory! "Our brother weakens, and we cannot fail. Our father forbade it!"

"Hmm?" Treebeard grunted, turning to face the impatient Elf. "You certainly are a hasty Elf, Astaldogald of Mirkwood!" He gave a hearty chuckle that sounded like acorns falling. "Elves are fleet-footed, but we Ents are not, you see, and you cannot cure the poison of Isengard with simple brotherly affection." Astaldogald fumed but said nothing more, much to his twin's relief. "Legolas Elf child has the strength of the trees within him, and that is potent indeed. Now come, I will rally the others. In this they may again feel alive!  _Hrum hoom!_ " Then he pivoted once more, and began to amble slowly, mumbling about tree-ish Ents and Ent-wives, the words becoming slurred and foreign.

Aratadarion looked to his twin. Astaldogald stood erect, his fist wrapped tightly about the reins of his mount. He looked stiff and angered, as though thoroughly vexed by this delay. He muttered something indiscernible through clenched teeth before pulling his horse to him and darkly stalking after the retreating form of the Ent. Aratadarion could not understand him. Surely he must care for Legolas; their blood was not yet so thin as to hold nothing but disgust and contempt. Yet his actions spoke not of love but of anger and annoyance, as though this task appointed to them was no greater than a mundane chore, as though he was fighting for their father's approval and not for Legolas' well being. The thought chilled Aratadarion, and in the cold wake came again their lost brother's soft pleas.

The fair Elf shuddered before steeling himself and following.

* * *

Things had not gone well for Aragorn. A week or so had passed since the battle upon the ruins of Helm's Deep. It had seemed a great time, each day more sluggish than the last, and his patience was fraying. The ranger counted himself a tolerant and coolly mannered man, for tracking demanded serenity of heart and mind, and frustration hindered the senses. Years of practice had honed his skills, and he had grown to be the master of his temper. As the hours dragged onward infinitely and the army of Rohan lingered in a strange suspension of indecision, he felt that control fade. This wait he could not bear.

Truly this was exasperating. The reason for the delay was clear to the ranger. The army of Rohan was leaderless. When Théoden had fallen, they had lost their drive as well as their commander. He could sympathize with the situation. The confusion and chaos of the battle had left many lost and wounded. Worse still, Erkenbrand and Éomer were in contention over the direction of the troops. Théoden had died so suddenly and so unrepentantly that no provisions had been made to decide such an argument, and the feud was somewhat livid. Even this he could understand. Éomer was kin to the king, but relatively inexperienced in the ways of ruling. Erkenbrand was an imposing and powerful soldier as well as the liege's most trusted lord. This as well was a pivotal moment. A great choice faced the men of Rohan. From Helm's Deep they might continue upon their attack and chase the Uruk-hai back to Isengard. This tactic was risky, for they did not know what dangers Isengard could house. They had not had the good fortune to defeat all the Uruk-hai; more would certainly guard Saruman's fortress. If they advanced, it could mean their destruction. Yet if they did not, a potentially serious victory would be lost. Beating Saruman's forces now would be an undeniable advantage.

In this two the lords of Rohan differed. Éomer insisted that they charge onward and finish what they had started. This would define the righteous stance of Rohan like nothing else could. The evil they faced was terrible, and it could not be allowed to endure. Aragorn suspected that Éomer's respect for the ranger had as well factored into his stance. This at least heartened the heir of Isildur, and he felt a good ally in the Third Marshall of the Mark. Erkenbrand was of the opposite opinion. With the king murdered, their first duty was to the people of Rohan, not to their vengeful hearts. The only obvious option was to return to Edoras where Théoden could be properly mourned and a new king rightly crowned. As well, if they had significantly damaged the Uruk-hai army, another attack directed at the city was a likely retaliation. Without the soldiers of Rohan, the innocent people both in Edoras and hiding in the adjacent hills would be defenseless.

These were the stances of the lords, and they were like night and day. Neither was illogical and both were pressing. Since neither position could be dismissed, the army of Rohan remained in a state of hesitation. This more than anything bothered Aragorn. He could not interfere in the workings of Rohan; it was not his kingdom to command, and this decision, whatever it may be, would undoubtedly shape the fate of the nation of the Rohirrim. When the empty days had begun to press on his distressed heart, he found himself wishing firmly that he might have the gall to make the choice for them. Time wasted would not benefit Legolas.

Still they tarried and on this night the ranger sat under the stars. His eyes were blankly trained upon the lapping flames of the fire of their camp, watching numbly as it hungrily devoured the wood. Beside him sat Gimli. The Dwarf's face was dark, his great mass of hair and beard falling upon dirtied chain mail. He puffed contemplatively on his pipe, sending plumes of gray smoke bursting up before they were scattered from being by the breeze. "It is calm tonight," the Dwarf declared quietly.

Aragorn looked up. The night was clear, the sky cloudless, and the light of countless stars created a breath taking mural of timeless beauty. For a moment he simply watched each twinkle. The air was clean, cool, and fresh. Days had swept the unpleasant aroma of death and fire from the fields and rocks. He breathed deeply and tried to relax. The stars offered him peace, but he could not take it.

He would not deny the reason for his rush. His heart bled with worry. What Boromir had told them was disturbing and relieving at once. If Saruman did not have the Ring, that meant Sam, wherever he may be, without a doubt now carried it. Though he worried for the Hobbit, he was glad that the Ring had, by some trick of fate, fallen into Sam's dependable hands. It was a strange thing when he considered it. Frodo's destiny was bound that Ring, it seemed. By searching for Sam, he was seeking the lost burden. How unusual the way things worked! A moment of treachery had scorned them, yet fate inevitably righted herself. With this thought Aragorn's concern for Frodo abated. When the friends reunited, their strength would see the Ring to its destruction, for the bonds of brotherhood were a tough substance for even evil to break.

Where Boromir's news released him from his fear for Frodo, it greatly intensified the terror that plagued him for Legolas. Now the sick twist of fortune became clear to him. He grieved for the choice his dear friend had obviously made. Sacrifice made for the sake of many was often more painful than any other, and Legolas had offered himself to the dark willingly to protect Sam. It was achingly clear, and Aragorn felt every part of his being clench in agony. He had failed in what he had promised to both Legolas and Frodo. He had guarded neither, and both suffered. What a sad creature he was! All he could hope to do now was somehow free Legolas. The Uruk-hai would not be kind to the Elf. Saruman would surely torture him for the Ring's location. The thought made the ranger grimace inwardly. He knew Legolas well. The Elf prince was noble and strong, but proud and stubborn. He would not easily submit. Aragorn could not bear to fathom the lengths to which Saruman might go to learn what he wanted. Still, there was some grotesque relief to be found in this. As long as Legolas held tightly to his secret, he was of value to them, and they would not kill him. As much as it pained him, he knew that a few weeks of torture, though vile and sickening, would not be enough to break an Elf, least of all one so powerful as Legolas. He would endure. And if Aragorn were fast enough, he would yet free his friend and repay a promise broken.

Still he said nothing to Gimli's comment. He knew in recent days he had become a cold, driving force, restless and short of temper. This he could not help; waiting here was madness to him!

Haldir stood beside them, his arms folded across his chest. His eyes were narrowed as he looked north. "The serenity I think is a façade. Something is in the air. A great change is coming to the forest. I know no more of it, though, only that fighting it will be fruitless." The breeze brushed by them, blowing Haldir's pale hair gently. He turned and looked to Aragorn. "You know what I would say, son of Arathorn, and I know you wish not to hear it."

The ranger's jaw tightened but he did not answer. Indeed he did understand, all too well, in fact. The only of his companions that had had the bravery to question his decision to march to Isengard had been Haldir. The Elf was adamant in the task bestowed upon him by Galadriel, and he had vehemently reminded Aragorn that fate called him to duties in Minas Tirith. Legolas' future, as he repeatedly stated, was not theirs to change. Aragorn had pointedly ignored him. Haldir was aggravating, but what truly irked the ranger was the truth behind the Lórien archer's words. Galadriel had laid upon him a greater purpose, and that he was selfishly ignoring. His guilty and angry heart could not bear to hear Haldir's arrogant reprimands again.

Surprisingly it had been Gimli that had convinced him to wait for the decision of the army. After it became clear that the leaderless group would linger, it was the Dwarf's logic that stayed his panicked heart. They alone would never be able to infiltrate Isengard. As much as it angered Aragorn, to be successful they would need the support of the Rohan forces. Curse this vile helplessness!

"He looks cold." Aragorn directed his attention to the concerned voice. Wrapped in blankets and sitting close to the fire were Merry and Pippin. The two small creatures sat huddled, each wearing an expression of forlorn exhaustion. They looked lost and hurt, the yellow light of the fire glowing in their crestfallen eyes. He knew clearly what troubled them. Boromir's return had stomped out their carefree banter. Their betrayer, without regard or reason, had reappeared and demanded redemption. It had almost become an unspoken law. No one spoke of Boromir. No one had confronted him. Aragorn dragged his gaze pointedly to where the traitor slept with his back to them. As it had been for days, Boromir kept his distance. A great wall had come up between them, dividing him from the Fellowship, and its bricks and stones were tough with festering hate and unshed tears. Once or twice, Aragorn had caught his wistful glances directed at the Hobbits. The man from Gondor was obviously searching for acceptance and forgiveness. Aragorn would not allow it.

Boromir was shivering. "We should give him a blanket," declared Pippin. Aragorn gritted his teeth and looked away, hating himself for the sympathy he felt crawling back into his heart.

The Hobbit made to stand, but Merry was quick to grab his arm to stop him. "No." The Hobbit's open face was uncharacteristically taut and angry.

Pippin swallowed uncomfortably and glanced around the group. Hard expressions of anger met his eyes, and he sank back down slowly. After a silent moment, Pippin sheepishly lifted his gaze and met the ranger's. The subject of which he wished to speak was clear, and Aragorn steeled himself with his anger. Quietly Pippin said, "I don't understand how he could do such a thing."

Merry turned, snapping from a reverie to regard his cousin. His blank expression became angry. "Don't even bother, Pip. It's not something that's worth understanding."

"But-"

"He's not one of us anymore," Merry declared coolly. Aragorn did not miss the waver of the young one's voice. The ranger looked down. The words seemed rough and wrong, and it hurt to hear them, despite his anger.

Gimli grunted and then stood. The stout warrior dumped the ash of his pipe into the fire. "Do not trouble yourself with guilt, young Master Took," rumbled the Dwarf. Harsh, beady eyes looked to the figure of Boromir. "It is his to bear alone, and he will."

Pippin did not seem convinced, his inner conflict plain on his face. It mirrored Aragorn's own heart. Then they grew quiet again. The army was still this night. The wounded had been moved into Hornburg, where they would be nursed safely. Corpses had been piled high and burned days ago, and the rocks and fields were now free from the debris of battle. The army lazed tiredly, still recovering from the strenuous fight. A shroud of exhaustion not easily lifted had descended upon them, and it was entirely disagreeable to Aragorn's impatience.

The silence became unbearable. Then Pippin's voice again shattered the quiet. "Will you sing, Haldir?" The Hobbit took a deep breath and looked upward. "The sky's pretty tonight, and I miss hearing a good song."

Frigidly the Lórien archer turned to the Hobbit. The ice of Haldir's glare caused Pippin to meekly shrink closer to his cousin. "Elf songs are not a matter for request. Furthermore, given the state of things, a song would be most inappropriate."

Gimli grunted hotly. The tension between he and Haldir had not dissipated in this last week. "Fool Elf," said the Dwarf, refilling his pipe. "Legolas oft sang when the little ones asked it of him. Though I care not for such things, even I was moved by his clear and peaceful voice. Surely you could bring yourself to do the same."

Aragorn grinned feebly despite himself. Haldir bristled icily. "I am not Legolas, Dwarf. I would ask you to remember that." Gimli huffed. "He is a Silvan Elf, a woodland creature, and they are too taken by emotion. Their songs are silly and trite. I would not voice them."

Merry laughed. "Would not or cannot, Haldir? You are a funny one! You are so selfless, cold, and composed! I doubt you could sing a merry tale like Legolas!"

"Mind yourself, little Hobbit." A strange thing happened, though. A bit of rose had colored Haldir's pale face. Even in the sparse illumination, it was visible. The Elf was blushing.

Pippin chuckled as well, his pain over Boromir before forgotten. "You can't sing, can you?" he asked incredulously. Haldir grunted and stepped away, folding his arms across his chest, and tightening his stature. "An Elf that can't sing! Can you believe it?"

Aragorn swallowed his laugh, sensing Haldir's discomfort. The others were giggling, and Gimli belted out a deep guffaw. "Friends, do not poke fun of another's shortcoming," he chided gently, and he found his tone surprisingly light.

"It is no shortcoming!" snapped Haldir, turning to face them. His face was becoming a deeper red, which only spurred more laughter from the group.

Gimli shook his head, "Sing, then, you crazy Elf! Show us the minstrel you can be!"

Haldir glowered a moment and all grew still. The fire cracked and popped, and the others regarded the Elf expectantly. Then, quietly, the Lórien Elf began to resignedly sing. The tune was meek and mellow. Merry and Pippin laughed harder at the Elf's quivering voice.

"Hush," ordered Aragorn tenderly. Mirth had again found its way into the ranger's eyes. "Let us hear the Elf song."

And so they listened. Haldir's melody was uncertain, and his voice held none of the friendly enchantment that Legolas' possessed. Yet the song was calming, the notes and lyrics as sweet and clean as the cool breeze, and it eased them all. Over the camp it sped, offering hearts a quiet release and minds a promising escape. Aragorn closed his eyes. For a moment at least, he could forget.

The sound of Haldir's voice lulled them. Had any of them paid their attention, they might have noticed the silent sobs wracking the distant body of Boromir. As it was, though, for the Fellowship, there was only the song of the Elf.

* * *

A decision was finally made, and action was taken. A day later Éomer and Erkenbrand reached a sort of compromise. The latter would remain at Helm's Deep with the wounded and, with his forces, would bar any advance of the Uruk-hai towards Edoras. Éomer decided to press forward, leading what remained of King Théoden's men to Isengard. With him gladly went Aragorn and his companions. Much to the ranger's dismay, Boromir accompanied them as well. The silent and forlorn warrior refused to stay. Like a lost dog, he followed the Fellowship, trailing them in a desperately furious attempt to help them. He disgusted Aragorn.

On the dawn they left Helm's Deep. For four days they marched. It was slower than Aragorn liked, for the army was weary and though diminished was still considerable. Moving so many armored, tired men was a slow and arduous task. Every moment needled the ranger. It was one more that Legolas spent suffering. It was one less he could use to free his friend. He was chained to his anger, to his worry, and to his anxiety. He was a slave to the time he felt slip away. The ranger was exhausted, emotionally and physically. The terror he felt for Legolas pounded in his heart, making him feel dizzy and sick. But he would not rest. Now was not the time.

So he pushed onward. Every step closer to Isengard tortured his mind with vicious and violent premonitions. The logic that he had but a few days prior forced himself to believe now seemed ridiculous. What did he know of Saruman's black ways? Surely the fallen wizard would know how to crush the will of an Elf! He imagined his poor friend, beaten and bruised, lost in the night. Legolas so thrived in the sun and woods; he would not retain his strength long in the black of Orthanc, and so many days had already passed. What if the Elf had been broken? Aragorn shuddered to consider it, but he could not stop himself. Saruman would waste no time hunting down Sam. And Legolas he would kill without second regard. The ranger's panic was consuming. His expectations were so sinister and bleak that they crushed his soul like a vice, and he could do nothing to stop his worrying. It grew so intense that it hurt to think or breathe, and he wanted to run. It took all his will to stay in place.

He led Hasufel forward. The great horse sensed his rush, his feet light and quick. At Aragorn's right sat Merry and Pippin upon the pony they had been given. Each was ashen and silent with the gravity of what lay before them. Beside them walked Arod with Haldir and Gimli mounting him. The emptiness was thick, the tension heavy and powerful. Each was anticipating the worst. Words were not shared. The mood was grave and somber. At Isengard they would face the Uruk-hai once more, and one way or another, this nightmare would conclude itself.

Boromir walked close to Éomer. His head was bowed, his lips compressed tightly into a thin line, his hand clenched tightly about his blade's hilt. His face was a mystery, his expression unreadable and closed. Aragorn cursed him whenever the son of Gondor trespassed upon his sight or thought. If not for that man's sick corruption, Legolas would be safe!  _He will be yet,_  Aragorn assured himself strongly and angrily,  _for I will not fail in this!_

Then they came to Isengard. It was not at all what they expected.

The once magical and imperial forests surrounding Orthanc were gone, razed to the ground, leaving gray earth scarred by drought and heat. The army stood upon a precipice overlooking the land below, astonished. Not only the destruction of the forest was disturbing. Littering the perimeter of Orthanc were bodies of Uruk-hai. The dry ground was washed in blood. For miles the carnage stretched, lining a path to the foot of the black and mighty tower. A last defense had obviously floundered at the base of the structure, for there a great pile of dead Orcs baking in the midday sun.

Stranger still was what circled Orthanc. A line of trees, thicker than a grove, remained around the base, as though surrounding and guarding it. It was a peculiar thing, these leave-less trunks, and it stunned the men.

"We advance," called Éomer after a moment, "yet carefully. Be on guard!"

Aragorn dismounted gracefully and grabbed Hasufel's reins and began to walk. The horse was a bit nervous as if unnerved by the surreal and bizarre scene. The ranger felt the same inside. As they walked, his inquisitive eyes scanned everything. So many Uruk-hai were dead. A veritable slaughter had occurred, but there were no signs of weapons or an army. What sort of force had done this? Uneasiness bubbled inside him like mud.

"Seems like someone beat us to the catch," murmured a stupefied Pippin, his hands tightly wrapped in the reins of his mount. Merry smacked him across the back of the head, effectively silencing him.

The troops walked slowly and cautiously down the path, watchful of the bodies about them as though at any moment this seemingly destroyed enemy would rise from the dead to again threaten them. Weapons were held tightly, poised to strike. Aragorn's stray hand clenched Andúril's warm hilt. "Was this the state of things when you came hence, Boromir?" demanded the ranger hotly.

Boromir shook his head, the blade of Gondor tightly clenched in his hands. "Nay," said the warrior softly, his tone confused and exasperated. He did not look at Aragorn, his wary eyes centered upon the black tower. He seemed haunted. "Their forces were great. It was here Saruman bred his army."

Ahead was a destroyed statue. For a moment Aragorn analyzed it, struggling to make sense of its strange forms. It was a white stone, but its tops were broken. Only when they passed could he see the ruined fragments. Long, narrow cylinders tipped red with blood. Fingertips. The white hand of Saruman. Some great force had smashed rock into dust.

The trees were near now. The army drew to a stop in shock. These were no trees at all, but creatures of some sort. They stood tall, looming over the soldiers, their skin rough and speckled. One turned slowly to face them and began to make a deep noise. The rumble shook through them and, startled, the army took up the defensive. Weapons were raised and arrows were notched on tight bowstrings. Aragorn felt his heart thunder in confused panic as he drew Andúril. What were these creatures?

The trees turned and neared. From their ranks then came a most peculiar thing. Two Elves stepped through them. "Who are you?" demanded one of lighter complexion, his bow held ready to shoot. The other stayed behind, meekly clenching a long white sword.

Silence. Thoroughly perplexed, Aragorn quickly scanned them. Then his heart stopped. The colors of Mirkwood. Frantically he looked to their faces. Surely, it was so! His eyes did not deceive him! "Son of Éomund, request of your men to stand down. This is no threat," the ranger declared quickly.

Éomer regarded him as though his was jesting, his face a bit vexed and very confused. It must have been a strange thing to him, Aragorn realized idly, for his new acquaintances seemed to meet lost comrades so often! But whatever he wanted to say was lost. "Son of Arathorn," spoke the first Elf, recognition glinting his piercing eyes. The dangerous bow was slowly lowered. "Strange indeed to meet you here. Our quests must be the same." He narrowed his icy eyes. "Legolas is gone."

Cold terror washed over Aragorn, and the ranger felt he might collapse as his weak heart thundered in pain. Gone? A million questions stampeded through his dazed mind. Numbly his lips moved. "It cannot be," he whispered despondently. Hot fury replaced the debilitating chill. He wanted to scream his frustration. "We cannot be too late!"

"We are. Saruman has fled." A cold empty moment passed. The heavy, horrible fault lay upon him. "Tell me,  _Estel_ ," Astaldogald sneered, "was it you that allowed our brother to fall into the shadow?"

Silence. So many eyes were upon him. He felt Haldir's condescending gaze scrutinizing him as if to proclaim righteousness. Merry and Pippin, both dumbfounded and lost, imploring him with a wistful yearning to make things right. Boromir's glare, his corruption wretched and foul. Gimli's angry vengeance dug into him as the Dwarf watched him. The fierce and accusing glower of the Elf before him. So many eyes! Curse this all! He did not know any more than they what to do!  _I am no leader!_

Rage flashed, burning him inside, and he shouted in frustration. His composure cracked. Andúril glinted in the midday sun, swinging in an arc of silver before coming to slam loudly into the cracked palm of the destroyed statue behind them. The blade sliced rock in his powerful fury, sliding in to the hilt.

The stillness was deafening. Shocked gazes surrounded him, crushing him, suffocating him. Aragorn clasped his hands tightly about the hilt of his blade and collapsed weakly against the rock. He could not fight anymore. The sun was so hot and he was so tired, so very worn. The failures of his heart and body became too much. How could they be too late? How could he have let this happen? To be so close, to have within his reach the redemption he sought and then lose it… Cold tears silently fled his eyes.  _I am so sorry, Legolas. I am so very sorry!_

But he said nothing. His moment of weakness disappeared quickly and he released a slow breath. Stiffly Aragorn stood. He looked not to the others, at once ashamed and livid with anger. Andúril he yanked from the rock and slid back into his scabbard. A dark gash now marked the palm of the white hand.

Dusty fingers wiped the wetness from his cheeks, smearing dirt upon his face. Silently he turned and walked away. Let them wonder at his display, he decided bitterly.  _Let them do as they will. I care not. If fate will forsake me, then I shall forsake it!_

Numbly they watched the dark ranger stalk away from them. So many concerned eyes, yet none that would understand! The shadow of a lost brother, the shade of a crushing guilt, clung to him like a ghost. With it, melding black into light and lies into truth, was the weight of his dark legacy. This was the heir of Isildur. This was the lost king of Gondor.

This was the last hope of men.  _Estel._ A pitiful joke!

Aragorn did not look back. He needed to be alone.


	12. Joining and Parting

The woods of Amon Hen were much as he remembered them. It seemed like a great deal had happened since he had last come upon this forest, but the trees showed no sign of it, as though ignorant of the lasting disaster that had started among them. Frodo counted them blessed for that. They did not know the distress or pain. They could not feel the heartache. They did not mourn. They were gloriously oblivious, completely static and unchanged, and no scar had been left upon them by the horrible happenings. It made this sick nightmare seem so much more unreal.

The small Hobbit walked carefully through the woods. Each tree looked the same as the last in this maze, and he was certain he was lost. This forest was thick and confusing; there were no clear paths to guide his feet, and he felt he had wasted the earlier part of the day wandering aimlessly. He was beginning to lose hope as well that Sam was hiding among the trees. So much time had passed since they had been separated and Frodo began to doubt that his friend would have remained in this frightening place. He had looked vigilantly for the other, searching behind thrush and trunk, in gorge and behind rocks, for signs of Sam. He had found nothing. He knew little of tracking and had never counted himself overly observant or intelligent, and his pessimism was beginning to take hold of him. Perhaps Sam had left these lands days before. Perhaps he had been hurt during the skirmish and was too weak to move. Perhaps…

He banished those thoughts. Frustrated tears were stinging his eyes, but he blinked them away. It was the lack of any sign of the fight that most concerned him. The eerie stillness of these woods troubled him as it had when they had first come to it. Memories of the struggle with Boromir forever stabbed at his resolve. He hated this place; it made him feel weak and powerless, and the trees still held this powerful promise of darkness. Frodo closed his eyes and took a deep breath. This was no place to lose his calm; he would need every bit of strength and endurance he had to find Sam.

He picked his way down a gentle hill, dry leaves cracking loudly beneath his light feet. Logic had prevailed over desperation some hours before, and he had decided to continue east. Surely Sam, he believed, would have tried to find the ramshackle camp the Fellowship had made upon the bank of the Anduin. His skeptical mind irritatingly continued to remind him that that would have been many days past, and it was extremely unlikely his friend would have remained in one place. Still, it was a good enough place to start. Unwittingly he hoped that Sam had left some clue, some hint as to his direction, at the camp. The assumptions that Frodo made bothered him; in truth he knew nothing, only that this horrible land was a foul and wretched reminder of what had happened.

As he walked, he tried to divert his thoughts from the painful sense of Amon Hen and keep the memories at bay. Yet as he hummed to himself a sweet Shire tune of old, his concerns fluttered about his mind relentlessly. It had become achingly clear to him the day before that Gollum had not been deterred from his pursuit by the blow Frodo had dealt to him. The strange ghoul had lingered outside the camp the small Hobbit had prepared the night before, dancing about the bushes on jumping feet, those sick, hungry eyes devouring him. He had not slept last night, terrified that if he let down his guard, Gollum would again insanely attack him. This morning he had noticed the creature trailing him, forever keeping his distance yet dogging Frodo's every moment. The entire situation aggravated and angered the Hobbit. He despised Gollum more with each dark thought that slithered through his mind. What did the demon want with him? He no longer had the Ring, and nothing he could or would do might change that fact. Still Gollum seemed bent upon following Frodo to the Anduin. Furiously Frodo supposed that Gollum hoped that he would find a way to ford the river, thus solving the beast's problem and ferrying him to the other side so he might continue his twisted little quest. Frodo had no intention of crossing the Anduin unless the situation without a doubt forced him to do such.

If he could find where Aragorn had hidden the boats, he might be able to follow Sam to the eastern shore.  _Only if that is where he went,_  he thought doubtfully. But this all seemed a distant and trivial concern. He could not find the camp. The sun was more or less directly overhead, its streaks and beams splicing through the holes in the luscious canopy and splattering upon the leafy floor. It offered him little means of way finding, and he was uncertain if he had inadvertently turned himself around. Trunks meshed with trunks, limbs became adjacent branches, and green covered everything. Oh, how he wished he were a bit smarter at such things! This maze made him daft!

Discouraged he stopped walking. The woods were quiet, and he did not like the stillness. Frodo released a slow breath and turned in a circle, his quick eyes glancing about frantically, hoping that some feature would strike him as familiar. Nothing did. Battling a sob once again, he sank unceremoniously to the ground.

After a moment, he managed to calm himself. Panic and melancholy would do him no good here. He had left Aragorn's protection with the intention of caring for himself. He was neither dumb nor dependent. He could and would find his way.

But he needed to think this through, and carefully, for losing his bearings more would undoubtedly complicate matters. The land here was unmarred by the fight that had transpired so many days before. Surely there would be some sign of the struggle: the body of an Orc, trampled leaves or broken branches, or battle debris. Yet here the forest was clean and undisturbed. Either he had still some way to go, or he had turned himself in the wrong manner. He looked up at the sun and winced as the blaring light encapsulated him. Yes, it surely was midday, for the rays were hot and directly overhead. Mayhap the best course of action would be now to wait for the sun to move in its track and distinguish east from west. Frodo pondered a moment, blankly staring at the ground as he did. The option undeniably had merit, but the warning in his heart dissuaded him. If here he should tarry, he would lose whatever ground he had gained on Gollum, and the other would come upon him.

Frodo shuddered as his cut arm began to throb anew. He had been unable to rid himself of the dreadful sight of those soulless eyes observing him with an insane hunger. He despised Gollum for his weakness and corruption. More than once he had pitied himself, wondering why it should be so that he must contend with the demonic creature. Would this be the bane of his journey?

At that thought, the words of old Bilbo came to him.  _"Things are only as troublesome as you allow them to be, my boy. Why have your heart burden you when the world alone can do so more than enough?"_  Frodo smiled thinly, but the advice brought a new idea to his wearied mind. He recalled again what Gandalf had said about Gollum, that the dark being, though sick and twisted, had yet some important part to play in the way of things. This new solution to his problem he found emotionally disagreeable but certainly plausible. He might purposefully wait for Gollum to catch him up.

It was an intriguing and disturbing thought. Though he loathed contact with Gollum, the creature had one secure advantage that he did not: Gollum had been to the sight of the battle. He had found Legolas' lost knife, which Frodo now clenched tightly in his fist. The Hobbit had kept the weapon close to him as he had traveled, for it brought him a strange sense of comfort, as if the Elf's spirit had somehow been engrained into the flawless blade and was protecting and guiding him. He frowned, absently digging a hole into the soil with the white tip of the knife. Gollum surely knew the whereabouts of the tragic battle. From there, Frodo was reasonably sure he could find their abandoned camp. He poked deeper into the dirt. Certainly it would not be too dangerous to use Gollum as such. Though he was unsure the extremes to which the creature might go to find the Ring, Frodo had disarmed him. If the Hobbit manipulated Gollum's lust, he could trick him into finding the camp for him.

He was disgusted by the idea, but he could not dismiss it. He was not the sort of person to use another, even one so low and pitiful as Gollum. Yet his anger gave him strength. Why should he not? Finding Sam was more important that sympathizing with the creature. He grew anxious at the thought and had to force himself to cease his fidgeting. This would be his action, then. Frodo took a deep breath to calm his riled nerves and began to wait.

Sure enough, not more than an hour later the black, emaciated form of Gollum he spotted creeping through the shadows of the dark trunks. He narrowed his eyes as the creature slinked closer, sliding across the leaves, muttering to himself. When Gollum came near, Frodo gripped the Elven knife tighter and stood slowly. He swallowed uncomfortably as his heart pounded, the memory of that demon lurching from the bush and trying to stab him fresh once more. "Come no closer, Gollum."

The creature halted, obviously seeing the long knife glinting dangerously in the bright sun. He crouched upon the leaves. "Good Hobbit. Kind Hobbit. Do not slay us,  _gollum!_ " he hissed, those wide, green eyes flicking open and shut quickly. "We are sorry, we are! Sorry to attack the Hobbit! Bright Elf knife yours now! Please do not kill Sméagol!"

Frodo gritted his teeth, every muscle in his small frame taut. "I will not," he began firmly, forcing bravado into his tone, "if you help me."

"Help the Hobbit?" Gollum's voice dripped a sick satisfaction, as though he were a merchant that had finally convinced a client into to paying a large sum for an object of little value. "Help you, we can! What help?"

It seemed so preposterous. Asking Gollum for assistance! Would these strange events never end? "I lost my friend in these woods. There was a great battle."

"Great battle, yes!" Gollum said, slithering closer. Frodo stepped back instinctively, narrowing his eyes dangerously and threatening the creature with the knife. Immediately Gollum stopped his skulking and regarded him with envious eyes. "Great battle! Bright, horrible Elf fell! Elf lost his knife!"

Inside Frodo's heart clenched in dry agony. His anger was enough to keep the depression borne from the mention of Legolas' defeat at bay. "Yes, a battle. I want you to take me to where it was. You know, don't you? It must be where you found this blade." He tipped the knife closer to Gollum apprehensively, not trusting the creature to hold it yet wanting to make it clear to what he was referring. "Do you remember where?"

Gollum grinned. It was an ugly, unsettling thing to see, and it sent shivers racing up and down Frodo's spine. "That we may,  _gollum!_ What would you give to Sméagol for his help, hmm? What, kind Hobbit?"

What indeed! Frodo felt a horrible conflict split him. Although he felt nothing but spite towards the scheming, cowardly demon, he could not bring himself to become blinded by his hate. The contradiction of rage and pity in his heart forced a promise from his mouth that he wished immediately to rescind. "If we can find the camp used by my friends, I will help you get across the river." The creature squealed in glee. The sound made Frodo nauseous. "Only if we can find the camp. And once we reach the other side, we part company, understand? You chase after that infernal Ring if it pleases you! I'll have naught to do with it!"

"We thank you, good Hobbit! We thank you,  _gollum!_ "

"Do not attack me again, Gollum," Frodo warned as the creature stepped around him. "I daresay all the pity of the world will not stay  _my_  hand if you unwisely do!"

Gollum screeched and squealed, but skittered forward. "Follow us, good Hobbit! Sméagol knows the way! Follow us! Follow,  _gollum!_ "

Frodo did carefully, never lowering his guard and eyeing the back of the creature warily. Gollum moved with unusual speed and grace, bounding quickly over the ruts and hollows of the forest, narrowly avoiding trunk and limb. Frodo had to break into a jog to keep up with him. As he ran, his mind raced. How could he have been so stupid to offer such a thing to that demon? He mentally slapped himself.  _Now I have truly done it! To aid such an evil! What would Bilbo think of me?_

The terrain began to descend down a gentle hill. Frodo glanced around with wide eyes, breathing heavily, and frantically searching for signs of Sam. That he did not see, but this area was somewhat familiar. He grimaced at the bodies he saw littering the ground ahead. They were seriously rank, stinking of decaying flesh. The most he could manage was a panicked and horrified cursory examination as he bounded by, making sure each corpse was not the body of his friend. Weapons were littered about. Now they ran along an ancient, degrading stone wall. Elvish arrows protruded from many an Orc carcass, each shot obviously deadly in its aim. Frodo had not the time to carefully consider the scene, for Gollum was gaining ground ahead of him, and he pushed his small, weary body harder.

Ahead there was the sound of rushing water, and then Frodo saw the clear blue of the Anduin through the trees. Gollum came to an abrupt halt and pranced around. "Here Sméagol found the Elf knife! Here it was,  _gollum!_ " Frodo stopped beside him and hunched over a moment, sweat running down his flushed face. After he regained his wind, he analyzed the area. Even now, so many days later, the signs of great scuffle were apparent. Dark blood splattered upon leaves and the dragging of feet had upset the soil. Four or five Orcs lay in a reeking heap of tangled limbs and slashed flesh. The Hobbit felt dizzy and terrified. This is where Legolas had fallen.

Tears burned his eyes, but he refused to cry. Ignoring Gollum for the moment, he staggered to the muddy shore and looked out across the water. Once the nausea and depression abated, he stopped to think. This indeed was once their camp. He recognized the rocks and the trees. In the sand were a plethora of footprints, some large and flat, others thin and light. Frustrated he looked away from the marks; he would never be able to tell the age of any of the prints. Otherwise there was nothing of any worth, and there was no clue as to Sam's location.

Disheartened, Frodo stepped back. His mind was racing. What had happened here? So much of what occurred remained a blur to Frodo, a tangled collection of frightening voices and faces and pain. He did not remember Aragorn ever bringing him back here. As he thought about it, he made some sense of the cloudy mess. The ranger had carried him in this direction, but they had come upon Gimli, Merry, and Pippin first, and that distraction had ended their journey.

Frodo turned then and returned to the shelter of the woods. Gollum looked at him expectantly, obviously wishing for him to deliver upon his word. "Come," Frodo beckoned, and the Hobbit vehemently stepped towards where he recalled they had reunited with the others. Quickly he walked. His frantic mind pushed his body faster, and he tore through the woods. Gollum he heard rapidly following him.

After a few moments, he found what he sought. This was the clearing along the muddy banks where they had found Gimli, Merry, and Pippin. Frodo looked around quickly. More footprints were pressed into the mud, faded with the passage of days. The Hobbit narrowed his eyes. His memory did not deceive him!

There, concealed in the thick brush, were the boats, turned over and hidden with loose branches. Frodo stepped closer and pushed aside the limbs obscuring the gray bellies of the vessels. Only two remained, as Frodo thought. That could only mean that Sam had taken the third. The assumption was sound, and Frodo felt soft relief weaken him. His exhausted legs wobbled, threatening to collapse him. Sam was yet alive! The euphoria was powerful and draining.

"Boats," hissed Gollum from behind him. "Good tidings! Boats!"

Frodo snapped from his daze and turned to face the creature. Though this knowledge was calming to his soul, it was also alarming to his mind. Why would Sam have crossed the Anduin? Gruesome and horrifying ideas plagued Frodo. Surely he had done it to escape the Orcs at Amon Hen! Yet fleeing to Mordor was so dangerous, and Sam was not the best of fighters or thinkers. Frodo prayed silently that he was safe.

A plan formed in Frodo's mind then. It was really the only option, no matter how he disliked it. He had to follow Sam. "We cross the Anduin together. Help me turn the boat over."

Gollum was all too happy to oblige his order, jumping to his side. Together the two small beings pushed and pulled, grunting in the effort, for the boats were extremely heavy upon their muscles. When they succeeded, the gray vessel was ready for use. Aragorn had emptied it of their supplies before stowing it, so it was vacant aside from two oars. Then Frodo resolutely shoved it to the water, bearing his teeth in the effort. Once in the river, he waded into the cool liquid and hauled himself in to it.

The boat shook and tipped with the weight precariously, but soon steadied in the clear river. The Hobbit glanced up. Biting back his disbelief and anger, he motioned for Gollum to follow. "Hurry."

Gollum hissed as he struggled through the water to the boat as though the fresh and cool substance were a poison to his mottled and slimy skin. The creature gripped the wooden edges of the vessel before lightly lifting his thin body over and into the craft. Frodo watched him warily. He set Legolas' knife down beside him after a moment. This was his decision. He would have to accept it. Even more, he would have to make himself trust this creature of the shadow or they would not get anywhere.

He offered Gollum an oar that dwarfed them both in size, and the creature grabbed it. Then frantically he began to row, as if now that he had a path to the Ring once more he could no longer bear to be slow. Frodo swallowed his aversion and took up his own oar. Slipping the head into the clear Anduin, he too began to drive the vessel across the river.

They labored in silence, yet each was acutely aware of the other. The sun beat down upon them. Frodo's mind was jumbled with much thought, and he had not the strength to sort the knot of emotions and worries. Yet, before they reached the other shore, a strange idea popped unannounced into his head. It seemed folly, but he could not dismiss it. A silly thing, really, for how could it be possible? Could he and Gollum be seeking the same thing? Could the Ring have…

The Hobbit shook his head. Surely not.

* * *

Isengard smelled of foul things, of burning bodies and rotting corpses, and Gimli wrinkled his nose. Each breath was more a poisonous torture than anything else, clenching the stomach and dizzying the mind. He longed for the cool, dank aromas of dark places, of peaceful air that was undisturbed by the heat of the sun or the passing of years. This place was a disgusting wasteland of fetid water and dead creatures. It thoroughly repulsed him.

This should have been but a minor concern, but the Dwarf found the putrid scent distracting. Inwardly complaining about such a thing saved his mind from the turmoil of their situation.

He stood now much the same as he had for the past hour or so, looking at the spike of black jutting against the clouds that was the tower of Orthanc. It vexed him that he should finally see such a magnificent feat of architecture during such a dire time. For many years he had wished to visit Isengard, the home of the wise and powerful Istari, as he had long heard from his elders that it was a regal and wondrous place. This land before him now was barren, decimated by the corruption of the One Ring and torn asunder by madness. It was no longer a symbol of logic and good, but a testament of vulgar and disgraceful evil. He wished that a time when cruelty could so completely and easily distort purity had never come to Middle Earth!

The doors slowly creaked open and he focused his gaze upon the portal. The two Elves they had recently met stepped through, the loud-mouthed, arrogant one first. This one was named Astaldogald, and Gimli detested him. He blatantly and proudly represented everything about Elvenkind with which the Dwarf found fault. The haughty prince treated all with detached superiority, and Gimli could hardly stand for it. Behind him stepped the other Elf, a creature called Aratadarion. He was a mere shade of his brother. Quiet and meek, Gimli disliked him as well. Though Astaldogald boasted far too much gall, Aratadarion seemed to lack courage and confidence completely. They were a strange sort, these two Elf princes, and Gimli had to carefully consider each to convince himself that they were indeed kin to Legolas. Astaldogald held Legolas' fair, golden coloration, and Aratadarion shared with Gimli's friend his fair beauty. As unbelievable as it appeared, they bore enough resemblance to the lost archer that Gimli could not deny the relation. He had never dreamed Legolas' siblings to be so infuriating!

Haldir regarded the approaching twins coolly. Gimli looked up to the Lórien Elf. At least Haldir as well wore his disapproval for the sons of Thranduil clearly upon his face. "What have you discovered?" asked the archer calmly.

"Little," returned Astaldogald. "Legolas suffered greatly here; this is clear to us. Saruman's new destination is not."

"Of course it would not be," grumbled the Dwarf disdainfully. "A wizard of his power would not easily allow himself to be followed!" His heart ached for what Legolas must have endured at the hands of the deranged Istar. The tower reeked of blood and death, of pain and punishment, and its silence screamed shrilly of the horrible things the walls had heard. His rage was constantly pressing upon him, cracking the dam he had constructed to keep it caged inside his heart. An Elf, especially one so connected to the beauty of nature as Legolas, would have languished inside that horrible dungeon. Sorrow choked him. "That wretched demon! My heart bleeds for Legolas, for he is too fair a creature to survive in such a darkness!"

Astaldogald's piercing eyes came upon him. "What would a filthy Dwarf know of such matters?" he asked frigidly. "Do go inside, son of Glóin. Orthanc does resemble a mine as much as a dungeon."

The insult shredded at his control. "You are rotten," snapped Gimli, clenching his hand tighter about the shaft of his massive axe. It took all his will to hold his murderous intentions at bay and stay the swing that itched in his muscles. "Do not seek to insult a friend of your brother!"

"A friend?" repeated the Elf incredulously. Aratadarion watched the display with a helpless expression upon his white face. "A Dwarf is no friend to an Elf, least of all an Elf prince! You presume much!"

"I presume nothing," Gimli countered, his fury escalating beyond his domination. "Legolas has a heart greater than any of yours. Insult me if you wish, but do not jeer him! Blood betraying blood… Thranduil has raised a wretch in you!"

Astaldogald's fingers flew to the hilt of his weapon. Only Haldir's restraining hand stopped him from drawing and advancing on the Dwarf. Gimli thought the Elf prince should consider himself fortunate that Haldir had intervened. "Calm yourselves," chastised the archer quickly, "and keep your peace. Squabbling like children accomplishes nothing."

Gimli growled as Astaldogald glared upon him. He wished nothing more than to pummel the brat to teach him some of the manners that graced Legolas! Yet he did nothing, and after the tension deflated, the Elf dropped his hand from his blade. "Of course," declared Astaldogald quietly. "Forgive me, Haldir of Lórien." The Elf lowered his gaze. "The previous days have tried upon my patience."

In this, at least, Gimli could relate. The twins of Thranduil had recently revealed how they had come to Isengard and the manner through which it had been destroyed. Briefly they explained their encounter with Treebeard, the enormous Ent that led the others. Gimli had never before heard of this race but gathered that they were indeed a potent force to so easily smash through the defenses of Orthanc. He had no doubt that Saruman would have fallen to their power had the wizard not so conveniently known to escape. It had taken quite a bit of cajoling on the part of Treebeard at some meeting that they called an "Entmoot" to convince the other Ents to launch this surprise assault. They did seem a bit lethargic and sluggish to Gimli. It was rather astonishing to think that they had found the energy to crush Orthanc.

Gloomily Gimli wondered how exactly Saruman had decided upon fleeing. It seemed so rash and illogical. The Dwarf knew little of the Istar, only that he was both wise and cunning. Had he somehow learned of their advance? It seemed unlikely, but he could not discredit the theory. The thought of someone betraying their confidence only further enraged him. Legolas had paid dearly for such treachery!

Haldir narrowed his eyes. Clearly he did not care for Astaldogald's response, but he did not push the matter further. From behind them came the fall of feet, and the group turned.

Aragorn approached them slowly and coldly. Gimli eyed the ranger with great compassion. When Aragorn had succumbed to his rage before, the Dwarf had felt his own heart ache for the other's plight. Truly this was a frustrating madness! He felt bonded to Aragorn in love for Legolas, and it hurt him greatly to see the ranger collapse in his toil. To lose both Gandalf and the Elf had taken quite a toll upon the man. As he looked upon his friend, he noted a disturbing change. Quite possibly for the first time since leaving Rivendell, Gimli saw no light in his eyes. They were without vigor, stoic and hard, and Aragorn's face held no characteristic friendliness. He was almost a wraith; deprived of life and love, he was left a dark menace bent by sorrow and guilt. Gimli cringed. Yet another of the Fellowship irreparably damaged, changed beyond return. Would this torture never end?

When Aragorn spoke, his voice was icy. "Come morning, I ride to Minas Tirith," he declared, eyeing the group almost suspiciously. "Those that wish to join me may, but I tarry for no one."

 _Minas Tirith._ Gimli's heart tightened in anger and pain. He felt it pump his fearful rage through him. This was wrong! If they went to the White City, never would they find Legolas! Surely Aragorn had not given up his driving hope! "Son of Arathorn," he began roughly, praying that his thoughts were untrue, "we cannot abandon Legolas! Saruman will destroy him!"

The hard glare cut into him like glass, and he shuddered within. "What choice do we have?" hissed Aragorn. "Time spent chasing Saruman is wasted. Duty calls me elsewhere, Gimli."

"Nay, Aragorn-"

"Speak not of it!" shouted the ranger harshly, his face a picture of thunder and fury. Gimli swallowed his words. He had to tighten every muscle of his body to prevent shaking in rage. His heart shivered. "This is the choice  _I_  must make, and I have made it."

All were quiet. Behind Aragorn stood Éomer. The Rider seemed baffled at the dissension among them. He spoke quietly. "I will lend you my fastest horses, son of Arathorn. May they hasten your journey. As for the men of the Mark, we return to Edoras to mourn our fallen lord at dawn. My sister, though strong and good, cannot manage our kingdom for long." Aragorn turned and Éomer bowed stiffly. "You have won our allegiance, heir of Isildur. Use it well."

"And the Ents?" asked Haldir evenly.

Astaldogald regarded them all with a doubtful glare. "They return to Fangorn this eve. Though their assault went smoothly, some were lost, and they are in mourning for the destruction of these forests." The Elf shook his head. "I know not what they might do after."

"Might we call upon their aid in the future?" question Éomer, regarding the Elves plainly.

"It was not my question to ask," Astaldogald said. He turned his harsh eyes to the Third Marshall of the Mark. Then the bright glare fell upon Aragorn. "As for myself and my brother, we continue on our hunt when dawn strikes the sky. Your duty might direct you elsewhere, son of Arathorn, but ours is steadfast." There was unspoken threat and malice laced into the tight words.

Aragorn responded in kind. "I trust you will do your best, son of Thranduil." Gimli stiffened at the cold tone. It was an insult of the worst kind, meant to indirectly and subtly demean the other's honor.

Astaldogald had the gall to chuckle. "A fool would doubt." Then he turned stiffly and stepped away, heading to the grove of Ents convening and preparing to return to their forest home nearby. Aratadarion lingered a moment more to offer an apologetic glance before trailing his brother. Gimli cursed them both as he watched their lithe forms disappear among the gray and brown bodies of the Ents.

They were silent a moment. The emptiness clearly riled Éomer, for he seemed jumpy and anxious to escape its choking grasp. "I take my leave, my Lord," he said simply. Aragorn offered him a small nod. Then the Rider turned and walked to the camp of the army behind them.

A chilly quiet came to them. The sun was beginning to descend to the horizon, and the night would be cold. The man, the Dwarf, and Elf were still. Gimli felt a tempest of emotion rage inside him with such force that he thought it might rip him apart. He could not find the voice to say anything more, distraught with worry. Haldir finally slashed the emptiness. "Aragorn," he began softly. His eyes softened a bit, and he seemed to hesitate. Gimli watched him intently. This Elf perplexed him, for Haldir was aloof and condescending, but of a good heart at least. The Dwarf begrudgingly had begun to respect his skills in battle; Haldir was both an excellent archer and swordsman. Though he lacked Legolas' friendly charisma and youthful flare, he had a certain simplistic strength about him that comforted and assured. Gimli knew Haldir would never falter as long as the power to fight lived within him. "I feel I need to apologize." The soft words stunned the Dwarf. "This was a difficult decision for you, and I know it grieves you deeply. My…  _insistences_  surely aided you not."

The ranger did not meet Haldir's remorseful eyes. Aragorn was smoldering. "You made your point clear," he said, his voice seething. "You have won this fight. Do not soil your victory with a shallow repentance. It will not bring Legolas back." With that, he turned and coolly left.

Haldir stiffened. Gimli watched the ranger's back in utter stupefaction. Never before had he heard Aragorn be so cruel! Oh, a foul day this was! Legolas, he feared, was lost forever to them now. Aragorn was slipping into a depressed shadow. This was not the way it should be! Friends tearing into each other in bloody turmoil and pain! Alas, how he wished to escape it all!

There came a whispered breath beside him. Though faint, he heard it clearly enough. "Elbereth, forgive me."

Gimli stared numbly at the crestfallen Elf for a moment. Surprisingly he found himself pitying Haldir. The Elf had only done what he had been ordered, what he thought was right. He did not deserve the harsh treatment Aragorn had leveled against him.

The Dwarf sighed tiredly. What was to become of them now? They were falling apart, bonds of loyalty and friendship fracturing, and Gimli felt alone and lost. He missed Legolas so badly; it ached like nothing he had felt before.  _Give me the strength to endure,_  he implored sadly.  _I fear there is much heartache yet to come for us all._

* * *

Another cold night came to the camp, and Boromir shivered. He laid alone on his side, apart from the site the Dwarf, the Elf, and the Hobbits had made for themselves. The man squeezed his eyes shut. With all his will he tried to ignore their presence, for it was a painful reminder of what now he could never rejoin. With all his heart he sought to block out the agonizing memories prodding at his attention. Coming to Isengard had been a torturous venture, for all around, in the air, in the ground, and in his heart, were the signs of the evil he had helped propagate, of the traitor he had let himself become. No matter how he tried these he could not ignore.

This was where he had truly become a monster.

He tried to relax his tense muscles and slow his bated breathing, but his own suffering discouraged him. The tangle of emotion his heart had become could not be sorted, and he hated his own weakness. He deserved the cold treatment had the hands of the others. It was his obsession that had shattered the Fellowship. Because of him they now mourned the loss of a companion. Because of him Aragorn lost his courage and compassion. Because of him Gimli wallowed in depression and Haldir coldly suffered for choices made. Because of him Merry and Pippin lost their innocent trust, and that more than anything did he wish to restore. Yet he could not entirely fault himself. His pride would not allow him to cast himself as a complete traitor. He still did not find error in his logic. With the One Ring he could protect Gondor, perhaps even all of Middle Earth. For the plight of his people had he done what he had. He could not stand to see the proud race of men flounder. He wanted to be their hope. Using the Ring for good seemed to be the only way to offer them faith.

Yet he had only destroyed where he sought to create. Such a sick contradiction! He despised himself as much as he did Aragorn. They were a pitiful pair, the two of them. Hating one another. Neither of them strong enough or good enough to do what was needed. How dare Aragorn blame him for what happened when the ranger himself had not even had the will to try?

All the conflicting things he felt nonplused Boromir, and he wished vehemently for the nattering of it all to cease so he might rest. Isengard disturbed him enough; he did not need his own conscience to further unsettle his heart.

The quiet was deafening. Every beat of his battered heart seemed so loud, and he shook with the chill. It invaded his body, seeping through his clothes as though they were nonexistent. He lay still for a long time in the dark, huddled and shuddering, trying to find some semblance of peace, before his turmoil was interrupted. "Here," came a familiar, soft voice. Boromir turned over, and a mixture of shock and joy colder than the night air struck him.

Pippin stood over him. Obscured by shadows, the Hobbit's innocent face seemed hard but concerned. The small creature offered him a wool quilt hesitantly. For a moment, both were paralyzed, as though uncertain how to feel or what to do. Boromir blankly looked between the other's eyes and the blanket. Then Pippin cleared his throat noisily. "Take it. It's too cold tonight to be without one."

Tentatively the stunned man from Gondor reached up. Slowly he received the gift, afraid he had indeed lapsed into sleep and that at any moment somehow he might wake and this glorious happening might vanish like a dream. He soul shook in relief. Pippin smiled nervously. "It's okay, really. I have an extra."

Stranger still to the man was what happened next. Pippin, as though suddenly unthreatened by Boromir or what he had done, sat gingerly upon the cold hard ground next to him.

They were silent a long time. Boromir did not know what to say. Inexplicably a lump of guilt and shame had clogged his throat, and he could not think. So very badly he wanted Pippin's affection and respect once more that he wondered if he might simply wither from his desire. The Hobbit looked blankly ahead, his elbows braced upon his thighs and his chin resting on his hands. The contemplative look seemed most unusual on the typically dense and impudent creature. "Merry says I shouldn't bother," began he quietly after a moment, "but I can't make myself stop wondering." Boromir found himself nervously twisting the hem of the folded quilt in his lap. He dreaded the question that he knew was coming. "Why did you do it?"

It was the first time anyone had bothered to ask him. The sound of it seemed strange to his ears. His motives must be an inconsequential matter, after all, for his vile deeds spoke more than any excuse he could offer. Yet, as incredible as it seemed, Pippin cared to know, whether it be out of concern or for his own edification. But now what to say? A thousand things stampeded through his mind, yet his stunned attention could latch onto naught, and he faltered a moment. Finally, in a weak voice that betrayed all too clearly his fear of rejection, he said, "I only meant to do good with it." It sounded pathetic and lame, but he could not stop now. "I thought… that I might use the Ring to destroy Sauron and unite my people. I thought I could save them with it." He nearly choked on his words. Frodo had not believed them. Why would Pippin? "I did not mean to become its slave."

Pippin was quiet and his stillness frightened Boromir. Would the Hobbit now refuse his explanation and leave him dejected once more? The long moment was a torture of the worst kind. "Would you take it all back if you could?"

The question hung on the air. His craving for the Ring reared within him, and he shuddered. Though his nobility and his shame kept the desire caged, he knew it would always be with him now. After feeling the Ring's glorious power, after knowing its tempting song, he would never be rid of the yearning for it. Holding the Ring, for even such a brief time as he had, had been wondrous, and he was addicted to that power and security. He did not know if, given the chance, he would again succumb to his lusts. Neither did he understand his heart, for though he despised what he had done to obtain the Ring, he did not regret having had it. "I do not know," he admitted.

A long time passed again before Pippin spoke. "I hate what we've become," the Hobbit declared. The hurt in his voice was terrible to hear. At that moment, Boromir wished only to erase Pippin's pain. "I hate to see friend turn upon friend. I hate what this did to Frodo. I miss Frodo, and I miss Sam. I wonder if I'll see them again." The Hobbit's voice quivered. Boromir looked to him. Pippin's cheeks glistened wetly in the meager light. "I miss Legolas and Gandalf. And I missed you."

Boromir's heart broke. "You missed me?" he repeated in a weak, disbelieving whisper.

"Certainly," said Pippin. He offered a crooked smile. "Sometimes I think at night when I should be sleeping that nothing would be better than to have this all end now and I could go home to Hobbiton. But that's not true. I don't want everything to just end. I want to have our friends back. I want to somehow take back what happened. It's quite silly, really!" Boromir shook his head. Pippin gave an amused chuckle. "Imagine me, Peregrin Took, on such a great adventure with such fine people! I didn't know any of you before coming to Rivendell. I didn't even like some of you! And I dreaded going so far so fast and facing so much danger. But all the trials we endured together weren't so bad really, and I think that is because we endured them  _together_." A choked sob fled the Hobbit. "Now I feel lost and splintered."

"Pippin, surely I-"

"I don't blame you," said Pippin, turning to gaze at the warrior. Surprise crawled through Boromir; there was a quiet wisdom after all in those eyes. "There is indeed enough anger already. I don't feel the need to augment it!" The Hobbit sighed and looked up to the skies. "Nay, I don't blame you! You had your reasons, and I can respect that. Surely Strider has his now." Pippin's small hand came down then and grasped Boromir's upon the dry, cracked ground. The man nearly jerked in alarm. "You are my friend still, even if nobody else will allow you to be."

A friend. Could he be such a thing again? Could he have possibly maintained Pippin's trust? He tasted tears and realized he was crying. Such a thing was a warm comfort to his cold heart! Hope again filled him as they sat in a companionable silence.

He knew now what he must do.

* * *

Dawn came. It was a bright one, the majestic rays of the sun burning oranges, yellows, and reds into lavender clouds upon the horizon. Warm light spread over Isengard, and a cool wind from the hills beyond rushed through, bringing the fresh scent of forest dew and warding away the stench and the chill. Though the land was destroyed, under the motherly light of the sun, life seemed again a possibility.

At the foot of Orthanc stood the allied forces. The soldiers hastily cleaned the camp. The blessing of a beautiful sunrise had returned the spring to their step. The men of Rohan were anxious to return home, after all. This campaign, in the end, had been victorious. The threat of Isengard had been extinguished.

Boromir watched as Aragorn spoke quietly to Éomer. He felt a strange peace that for so long eluded him return. For the first time in days he could look upon the ranger and keep his spite at bay. Finally Aragorn broke his conversation with the Rider of Rohan, and the prince gave the would-be king a short bow. Aragorn nodded, and with that, Éomer turned. He shouted an order to his men, declaring their triumphant return to Edoras, and a rally went through the troops. With one last glance to Aragorn, Éomer and the men of the Mark took their leave.

Boromir watched the retreating army as it marched southeastward into the sunrise. The light bled around them ethereally, and the men glowed with pride. A bit of euphoria found its way into Boromir's heart as he beheld them. Truly it was endearing and encouraging seeing men emerge from a vicious and difficult struggle successfully.

Then Aragorn approached. Surrounding him was what remained of their motley group: three Elves, two Hobbits, and one Dwarf. Gimli and Haldir rode upon Arod, the white beast standing tall in the morning sun. Merry was darkly staring at the ground from atop their pony. Not once had he made eye contact with Boromir, and the cold detachment bothered the warrior. Pippin on the other hand chewed loudly on an apple and regarded him with clear eyes, once again calm and innocent. He too had taken his spot on the pony behind his cousin, preparing to make for the White City. Boromir regretted that he would not be joining them, for his heart now yearned again to see his home and to be in the company of a fair and sweet friend.

The son of Denethor looked to the twins of Thranduil, watching as Astaldogald glared upon Aragorn. The ranger took no heed, grabbing the leather reins of Hasufel. Gracefully he mounted his horse. He nodded curtly to the Elves. "I wish you well," declared the ranger coolly, "and that you have success. Though Legolas is no kin of mine, he is brother to my heart, and I hurt for him. I care not if you believe me."

Astaldogald's face contorted, as if he was quelling a harsh retort for the sake of diplomacy. "We will find him, son of Arathorn. The orders of our king allow us no other choice."

Aragorn seemed angered by the other's attitude, but said nothing more. In the awkward silence that followed, Boromir spoke. "I too bid you farewell, Aragorn."

The eyes of the Fellowship came to him, some shocked, some relieved. Pippin stopped munching, his jaw suddenly limp and his expression hurt. Boromir forced the words from his mouth, swallowing his hesitation. He was dedicated! He was and would continue to be! "I will join the twins of Thranduil in their quest." He sighed slowly, narrowing his eyes and his heart against all other pains. "This I must do."

For a moment, no one spoke. Boromir could feel the objection radiating in harsh waves from Astaldogald behind him. As well did he know the shock of the others. Certainly they must be wondering what now his motives were. He met Aragorn's gaze steadily. Hearts of equal strength connected. "I will not fail you. I will find Legolas," he promised quietly, offering his word. "I will make things right again."

The oath was accepted. A piece of trust was restored. Aragorn's hard expression softened a bit, the tiniest sight of relief returning to his stony eyes. Then the ranger nodded. He turned, as if it became too painful to remain in this horrible place, and spurred his horse into a gallop down the path from Orthanc. Upon Arod Gimli glared and Haldir remained nonchalant. They as well followed quickly. Lastly left Merry and Pippin. Though the former would not so much as share a glance with Boromir, Pippin's face was open and relieved. Proud. Boromir gave him a small, private grin of gratitude before they too were gone.

The air became still a moment. The three remaining were tense and stiff. Boromir took a deep breath to calm his nerves. Resolutely he turned to face his new companions. He had done it. He had taken a new path for himself and faced his sins. Now he could begin to hopefully make amends.

"We travel east to the Anduin. I have considered this much, and this seems the only probable conclusion. Logic dictates that Mordor must be Saruman's intention. No other place in Middle Earth offers him security and power. I sincerely doubt he would dare go north to Dol Guldur." Astaldogald cast a cold glare upon him. "If you wish to join us, son of Denethor, I will not stop you," said the Elf coolly as he slid a dagger into a sheath at his waist. "But I caution you to keep pace with us. We will not wait for you."

Boromir glanced between the two twins, amazed by their differences. He was insulted by Astaldogald's haughty words but he would not allow that to dent his determination. He would have to endure it. "You need not worry," he assured quickly, his hand resting slightly on the hilt of his blade. "I am no weakling."

Astaldogald grunted as if to challenge the statement. Then he turned to his brother. Aratadarion gave a small affirmative nod of his readiness, and then they began to run east.

As they did and the morning progressed, Boromir's mind began to churn with an uncomfortable thought that began as an idle concern but had morphed into a pressing fear. These two Elf princes were powerful indeed, for they were of the same blood as Legolas, and Boromir had many a time witnessed the dangerous prowess of the archer in the ways of battle. Did they know of the Boromir's duplicity? He prayed they did not. It did not seem so, because both regarded him with prejudiced suspicion and nothing more. He cursed himself for not seeing this earlier! Here again he must hide what he had done, though this time for his own safety. A sick irony to be now traveling with Legolas' kin!

He must be careful. He cringed inwardly.

If they discovered that he was the man who had betrayed their brother, he had no doubt they would not hesitate in killing him.


	13. A Promise Kept

Legolas growled deep inside his throat. The sound was low and unnatural to his ears. Weeks prior he would have thought doing such a thing unbecoming of an Elf, much less an Elf prince. But he had changed much in the crushing grip of the darkness. He would not pretend that his ragged appearance did not disturb him. The mud, dirt, and blood stained into his skin and his tangled hair disgusted him. His clothes were tatters that clung like scraps of rags to his thinning body. He would not deny the pain he felt. The many wounds inflicted upon him made movement a trying torture. But he had reached the point beyond caring. The blows inflicted by the cruelty of his captors hurt less when he used his anger as a shield. This was the greatest difference he felt in himself, and though it scared him, he did not know how to fight it. He was not even sure he wanted to, for this rage and panic that was budding inside his heart where his calm, stoic peace once resided was his only weapon against the shadow. He would not fade quietly. They would not so easily take him to his doom.

The reason for his rage this day was much the same as it had been for the last few. And, on this gray, cold morning, he was again rewarded for his impudence. The Uruk-hai's hard fist rammed into his face, sending Legolas to the soft floor of the forest. The Elf wheezed for a moment, blood gushing from his nose, before the ugly Orc reached down and yanked him by the rope around his neck upwards. As the tough cord tightened, its dry threads bit into the soft flesh of his neck with a painful burn.

"Stupid Elf," came a guttural hiss. The Uruk-hai's eyes were glowing with sadistic malice. Legolas glared back with equal hate. Since leaving Isengard, his anger and pain had morphed into a frustrated murderous fury. He longed often to repay these brutes in kind for all the vile things to which they had subjected him. But he was always kept at a disadvantage. They trussed him so tightly that never would his hands come free. Underneath his fear and disgust, it gave the Elf prince some small bit of satisfaction that they feared him enough to keep him bound and leashed like an animal.

He did not show them his panic or his terror. Thus, when the first blows landed, he did not cry out. He lay as still as he could when the beast pummeled him with powerful kicks and brutal fists, forcing himself to relax. Though it was agonizing, he knew it was necessary. Fighting back or trying to protect himself resulted in more injury. He had learned quickly that the Orcs lost interest in doling out his punishment when he acted a limp doll instead of a furious combatant. They reveled in his struggles. If that he did not give to them, they would abandon their harassment of him. What they did not realize was the less they injured him, the stronger he would be the following morning to again attempt to flee. Foolish creatures.

Legolas closed his eyes, keeping a grimace from his face, as the heel of the Orc's massive foot crashed into his exposed belly, bruising the skin and crushing his innards. The Elf prince this time could not stifle a cry. The blow left him gasping, his body shaking in waves of tumultuous pain, and for a moment all he could do was breathe.

"Enough." Legolas was slow to regain his senses. He loathed the sight that came to him when he did.

Saruman's placid face yielded so much implicit malice, his eyes veritably glimmering with hot sadism. Legolas swallowed the bile burning the back of his throat and forced himself to focus, though the shock from the last strike was slow to recede. He could not afford to falter before Saruman. For the pride of his father, he could not!

The wizard gave a cold, amused chuckle. "Another escape attempt, Legolas? Surely by now you must realize it is folly." Saruman's voice sang a sick tale of twisted lust and untold corruption. "You will never be free of my grasp, dear Elf."

The Elf narrowed his eyes but said nothing. The words had cut through his resolve, and though his anger was driving, his heart wavered. It had been a boon to him to again be among the trees, to breath the revitalizing cool air of the forest, to feel the soft warmth of the sun ease his aching hurts. Departing the rank dungeon of Isengard had heartened him in that at least. Feeling the caress of the wind again had brought him hope enough to fight them, and he had. His old wounds had begun to mend with the return of his strength. Only a dozen or so Uruk-hai had the wizard brought with him on his journey, leaving the rest to contend with the force of Rohan. Wormtongue, that pasty little man that had betrayed Aragorn's location in Rohan, had been sent to Gondor on Saruman's orders. He was to, by whatever means necessary, prevent the would-be heir to the throne of men from assuming his position and rallying the legions of Gondor against Sauron. Saruman had surmised Aragorn would try to do such from the ranger's new allegiance with Rohan. The Elf prince feared for Aragorn; though Wormtongue appeared a weakling, he was empowered by evil and sly with his words. At least this intimated that Saruman was not so powerful as to be beyond fear, and that his dear friend had come at last to proudly assume his birthright.

Even with the diminished company, Legolas knew he was in no condition to best so many without a weapon and bound as such. His ribs, though healing, were still a hindrance to his breathing. He had regained some use of his left hand, but still he could not get enough strength into his swollen fingers to grip anything. Each new injury he sustained as well reversed any progress he had made in salvaging his might. Hobbled and bound, he had only managed to pull away from his captors when their attentions were directed elsewhere. Always he was quickly apprehended and beaten for it. At best all he had been able to do was retard the inevitable march of Saruman east.

Legolas felt tears of frustration and fear coming to his eyes. He indeed knew it was foolish. Even so, he could not allow himself to be dragged to his death without struggling. That was not how he had been taught to live. His father, though arrogant and easily swayed by drink, had instructed each of his sons in the weight of their heritage. Never would he end his defiance. It was what drove him to fight, even though he knew the endeavor to be fruitless and detrimental. If Saruman stole his pride, truly he would be broken.

So he blinked back his tears and stifled his hopeless sob. "Anything to slow you," he snapped coolly in bold anger.

He did not regret his words, though they were met with harsh brutality. The Uruk-hai holding the rope about his neck yanked it most viciously, and Legolas was bodily lifted from the cool forest floor. The knot tightened, choking him. His lungs began to burn and he gagged. He vaguely felt warm blood seep from the burns upon his neck. With his hands tied tightly behind his back, there was no way to defend himself. The Orc laughed as he rammed his fist again into the Elf's stomach. Legolas' scream died as the air rushed from his lungs.

After he was dropped. Legolas gasped as he struck the ground, the impact jostling bruises and bones. Above the ringing in his ears he heard laughing. Then the cold tones of the wizard. "Silly child. Why do you seek to destroy yourself?" asked Saruman. "Do you take pleasure in your own pain?"

Wetness blurred Legolas' vision as he sucked in breath after breath, trying to fill his blazing lungs. "I will not give you the satisfaction," he gasped, wincing as he struggled to sit up, "of seeing me broken, Saruman."

The Istar's pleased grin chilled Legolas. "You act as though you can deny me such. Little Elf. You truly are a silly creature, Legolas Greenleaf! Tell me, how might I punish you now for your resistance? Though it much amuses me to see a small, pitiful being such as yourself struggle against his fate, you have caused me much delay. You might think yourself wise, little Elf, but you are but a foolish child, and I see all things." Legolas' thundering heart held still a moment. He felt the color drain from his face. "You are biding your time. You do not fight my Uruk-hai when they beat you to lessen injury. Undoubtedly you are conserving your strength to truly make your escape." Legolas felt his soul shake. For days this had been his thought. Being so easily disarmed of it chilled him. Truly Saruman's sick logic was deadly! The wizard cruelly scrutinized him. "I see now from your fair paling cheeks that I am indeed right. Your face betrays much, Legolas. A mature Elf would never wear his emotions so plainly. I laugh at the sight of your fear!" Indeed, he did.

Anger coursed through Legolas, and he felt his composure flutter. Again the murderous rage piqued. Saruman's belittling of him hurt in some ways more than the bruises and blood. How he wished he could remove that nasty, sadistic, smug grin from the wizard's long, pale face! Days ago he had begun to wonder why Saruman had not killed him. It made little sense to Legolas, and he had had a great deal of time to ponder the bleak prospect. Surely he was of no use to the wizard now. Saruman had deduced what had become of the Ring. Though Legolas prayed he had done nothing to aid in the wizard's disastrous conclusions, he still felt horrible and guilty that he had failed in protecting Sam and Frodo. Yet Saruman had learned what he had wished, and certainly knowing  _which_  of the Hobbits in particular carried the hateful Ring was trivial. Why then did he keep his prisoner alive? As Legolas had considered it, two reasons came to him. Saruman had made many assumptions in his reasoning. Though Legolas knew them to be true, the old wizard was not stupid. He would not leave himself without a failsafe. Killing Legolas would mean destroying the last known link with the One Ring. That was likely a risk Saruman would not take. This seemed a trifle concern to Legolas, for though he revealed nothing of his painful defeat, he knew Saruman had discovered the truth. The latter motive disturbed the Elf prince greatly. Here again was the sick obsession in Saruman's eyes, the hungry lust to intimidate and destroy. He needed no great intelligence to see that his suffering gave the wizard great delight and gratification. As base as it might be, the wizard would not have his entertainment perish. Legolas hated him for reducing him to mere object to use and abuse!

"You are mad, Saruman," hissed the Elf prince. His tone was seething in burning resentment and spite. "It is you who is the fool if you think that Sauron will share his power. There are no allies in greed. There is no loyalty in evil. Find his Ring if you wish. I am sure he will kindly repay you in betrayal!"

The harsh truths did not go unheeded. Legolas felt euphoric as he detected the smallest hints of fear and worry in the wizard. In a flash they were gone. Saruman glared upon the Elf, black ire in his eyes. "Insolent child! Stay your stupid tongue!" The brilliant blue eyes of the young prince locked upon the black gaze of the wizard, and in this they warred. Then the Istar grinned slowly and crookedly. "I tire of you, Legolas. Your continual defiance disgusts me."

The Elf's face hardened. "Then kill me. I will not submit to you, Saruman. You do not have the power to force me down!" The statement hurt, but he pushed it from his mouth. In truth he was terrified that he would face darker things come their arrival into Mordor. They were nearly upon the Anduin. There was not much time left. He doubted he would have the strength to face the black of Minas Morgul.

Saruman shook his head. "My dear Legolas, I grow weary of your infernal nobility. Your purity is repulsive. Your fair beauty is insulting. Your Elven blood gives you much strength, but I will see it turn cold and dead." Legolas stiffened. "I will see you humiliated for your contempt! Do you seek to test me, fair prince? You have wasted much of my time with your fleet steps and agile mind. So now I shall rid you of your means to defy." The wizard's white expression was cold and placid. "We march on, and you keep pace with us. But you walk now unprotected and without the benefit of your shoes. This is my retribution. After the rocks and ruts have torn your light feet to pieces, let us see how you will escape me."

Cold terror washed over the Elf. Legolas' heart boomed painfully in his chest as the Uruk-hai around him smiled malevolently. With his hands bound and the rope about his neck taut, he could do nothing besides wriggle as the massive, stinking Orcs came upon him. "No!" The one holding the rope slammed his huge, meaty paw around Legolas' pale throat, holding him to the ground with a crushing grip. The Elf could barely breathe, and panic and instinct directed his battered body in its struggle. His hands were crushed behind him by his own weight.

As the other Uruk-hai shredded at his light boots, the one restraining him smiled. The grotesque, cracked lips pulled tight to reveal rotted, yellow teeth. Blackness bordered the world for Legolas, hungrily devouring the scene, and his body was burning. He kicked vainly. Vaguely he felt his toes strike something firm and heard a squeal. The small victory was lost to him, for more Uruk-hai were quick to join their comrades in traumatizing their prisoner.

A fist slammed into his temple, and he could not see any longer. He could not breathe. A rough claw raked through his ragged hair, pulling and ripping. Another scraped down the skin of his breast. "Stupid, stupid Elf," came a quiet snarl. It was the last thing he heard before he crashed into blackness.

* * *

Before the mark of two days passed Saruman's legion arrived at the Anduin. They were far south of the Falls of Rauros, where the great stone statures of mighty kings guarded the watery entrance to Gondor with vigilant eyes that never slept. Here they could not protect him. These forests were darker, rockier, and Legolas knew his time was nearly gone. Across the dark river was the black eastern shore, the trees bent and sick. Their song was a pained one of terror and corruption. It mirrored his own heart. Once they crossed the Anduin into Minas Morgul, there would be no hope for him.

Still, he could do nothing to stop it. He had hoped that the massive expanse of the water might pose a problem for the Orcs and their master. As they reached the shore, though, that futile and silly wish died. The Uruk-hai assigned to guard him that day held his arm tightly as Saruman stepped to the bank. On light feet the Istar floated, his white robes shimmering in the midday sun like wisps of clouds. Legolas watched silently and in stupefaction as the great wizard stepped lightly upon the calm waters of the river. He walked on the water, but its liquid being supported him as easily as stone, and not wetness came to his white robes. The light from above streamed down about the wizard like ethereal streams of energy, and Saruman lifted his black staff slightly. An incredible thing happened then, and Legolas for once could forget his toil as he marveled at the sight before him. Saruman breathed out quiet words in a tongue foreign to the Elf prince, and the Istar abruptly then raised his staff to the sky. Below him water became ice with a gust of freezing wind that hurt the skin. It drew up into a ridge of clear solid, forming a sturdy plateau beneath Saruman's robes that extended from shore to shore. The cold, violent gale disappeared.

The wizard turned then to face his company. A small smug, satisfied smile twisted his thin lips. Legolas' spirits tumbled as the Uruk-hai growled and grunted in appreciation of their master. Without further delay, they crossed the river.

The road turned south, their path hugging the eastern bank of the mighty Anduin as it rushed. This place was quiet and dark. Old trees nearly strangled by thick, snaking veins were the sole inhabitants of the deep forest. Without the chatter of bird or squirrel, their agonized song was clear and paining. It brought chills to Legolas' heart. These words reminded him of those that surrounded Dol Goldur. Many times in the past, he and his brothers had led war parties to the southern border of their kingdom in chase of Orcs or other ghoul. There as well the forest was as such, as though the ancient fortress of Sauron, though mostly dilapidated and deserted, had poisoned the soil and air through which trees fed and breathed. It was a sad thing, truly, and it hurt Legolas anew with every visit. Evil suffocated good, much like the strong vines so intent upon squeezing the life from the forest.

Their keening plea for release only added to his depression. Each step was absolute torture. This land was rough and uneven, and these trees did not shed leaves to comfortably soften the forest floor. The rough ground cut at his soft skin, leaving blisters and bleeding welts, and he could barely put any weight upon his feet. He knew vaguely that stones and dirt were infecting the cuts. He limped and staggered, and the Uruk-hai were not kind to his plight. They dragged him forward and struck him when he resisted. True to Saruman's orders, he was made to keep pace. A cruel punishment indeed!

Another day passed before Legolas collapsed. Saruman at once appeared both pleased and disgusted at the Elf's fall, and ordered a camp made that night. They were now very close to the black fortress, and the wind screamed of evil. The black woods, crooked and contaminated, sang a weak lament without respite to their kindred spirit, but Legolas was beaten. His strength was fleeting and his heart was heavy with the burden of his destiny. He would never escape. He would never again know the beauty of his forests or see pride in his father's eyes. He would no longer quarrel with Astaldogald or sing with Aratadarion. Gimli's gruff friendship was lost to him, and the cheer of his Hobbit companions was gone. Never would he hear Arwen's laughter or know Aragorn's confidence. This was his fate. He was bound to darkness.

His body ached and his soul shriveled. The evil here was so strong, so powerful, that he felt dirty breathing the air and sick resting upon the ground. He mourned these trees for the eternity they had had to endure in the putrid wake of Minas Morgul. In this dark forest, no light penetrated, and he was prisoner to the night. At least, for the moment, his captors were ignoring him. They had left him propped against a trunk. His hands had been tied in front of him now so that he might feed himself. The stale, sour bread and the cup of water rested upon the ground untouched.

The Elf closed his eyes and swallowed the sob trapped in his throat. Hopelessly he waited for a dawn he knew would not come.

* * *

A black night had come to Mordor. Sam looked up to the sky, but there were no stars. The moon was hidden behind dark, bulky clouds, and its light could not find its way through. It seemed to him a dark omen. A few times since the sun had set had he noticed a midnight blotch that appeared darker than the surrounding clouds travel the sky. At first he thought it to be a trick of his eyes or a fault of his exhausted mind. Yet with each reoccurrence he doubted more that it was simply a figment of his imagination.

He watched now, standing atop a rocky projection, narrowing his eyes and straining his senses. So engrossed was he in his examination of the clouds that Gandalf's question startled him. "What is it, Samwise?"

Sam jerked in surprise and turned suddenly. He flushed with embarrassment. "Nothing, Mister Gandalf, sir. I thought I saw something big flying overhead, but surely I must be daft with weariness, for there is nothing there now!"

The old, kind wizard regarded the Hobbit with knowing eyes. Sam found his gaze at once easing and disconcerting. "You imagine nothing, Sam," spoke Gandalf, his deep voice quiet and somber with importance. He stepped closer and laid a comforting hand upon the Hobbit's small shoulder. "That is no mere shadow you see traversing the clouds."

Sam blanched. The words held worried gravity and Gandalf's fingers were almost painfully tight upon him. "What is it?" he asked in a hushed, frightened tone.

Gandalf's old face grew taut and concerned. "The Witch King," declared the wizard in a voice hardly louder than a whisper. "The Lord Angmar, the liege of the Nazgûl." The old man shook his head in disapproval. "He is hunting here, I believe. On his great, winged mount of black, hunting and roaming between Barad-Dûr and Minas Morgul."

"Hunting?" repeated Sam in a strangled murmur. He felt himself shivering, but he could not find the strength to stop the instinctive shaking of his body. He remembered the Nazgûl clearly enough. They had pursued the Hobbits relentlessly after leaving the Shire. Like a nightmare, they rode on black horses, draped in cloaks of midnight, and shrieked into the air like ghouls. Until they had come to the Prancing Pony at Bree and met Strider, the four Hobbits had not known fully the extent of the evil that trailed them.  _"They were once men,"_  Aragorn had explained to them.  _"Great kings of men. Then Sauron the Deceiver gave to them nine rings of power. Blinded by their greed, they took them without question and one by one they've fallen into darkness. Now they are slaves to his will. They are the Nazgûl, Ringwraiths, neither living nor dead. At all times they feel the presence of the Ring, drawn to the power of the One. They will never stop hunting you!"_

It was true! Sam remembered the disgusted terror he felt at hearing the ranger's words, but it was little compared to what came to him as they continued their journey to Rivendell. Those nine riders had pursued them relentlessly, shrouded in the dark of night. They had wounded Frodo, nearly sucking him into their sick service with their poisoned blade. They were heartless, mindless, driven to insanity by desire for the Ring. Demons wreathed in the most crazed of quests. Sam had thought the Nazgûl lost or slain, for at Rivendell, where the nine walkers had been formed to face the nine riders, the demons had ceased their torment and seemingly disappeared. Clearly it had been childish folly to think such! Oh, by Elbereth, to be quarry of theirs once more!

"We are in a fix of sorts here, young Gamgee. I had feared this could happen," Gandalf declared almost absently. Sam looked to him slowly, stunned that the strange figure he had happened to notice could yield so much peril.

"Oh, what can we do, Gandalf?" asked the Hobbit meekly. If this searching beast was the lord of the Nazgûl, surely it was more powerful and treacherous than any of its underlings! "It's too dangerous to face!"

Gandalf afforded him a small, amused smile. Sam took reassurance in it and felt his terrified heart slow. "You forget, Sam, that I am dangerous as well. I am no mere conjurer of cheap tricks. I am Gandalf the White." A small grin crept to Sam's ashen face. "Yet I think a confrontation would be best avoided. Let us continue stealthily, and perhaps we may elude it."

The wizard then turned and continued to walk, lifting his smooth rod and using it to maintain his balance upon the precarious rocks. Sam swallowed heavily, unnerved still by the demon that flew overhead. His hand mindlessly came to rest over the Ring, pressing its scolding heat to the flesh of his sternum.  _Keep your peace,_ he implored,  _you little devil!_ Then he followed Gandalf.

The night grew darker and deeper as they moved. A few hours passed, but it was hard to tell the passage of time without moon or stars to indicate it. Sam trudged silently behind Gandalf, but his senses were directed elsewhere. He glanced to the sky often, searching the clouds for the strange apparition he knew now to be a threat. His ears he strained, but Mordor was eerie and quiet. The stillness prickled his gooseflesh and riled his nerves. This wretched place! How he longed to be rid of it! Everything here was rank, dark, and dangerous. The spirit of evil seemed to permeate every rock, every pore of the land, and its caress was appalling. The closer they marched to Mount Doom, the heavier the weight of the One Ring became. It was pulling him down, dragging his soul into the darkness, and he was growing weary of the fight. He had never counted himself as strong or as wise as Frodo; he often thought he would fall into the swirling abyss of fire that the Ring threatened. He wondered readily if it, in the end, would defeat him. What twist of fate had placed him in a role not meant to be his? What change of events had dumped upon his weak shoulders a burden that he did not think he could carry? The appearance of this Witch King stirred Sam's skepticism. He felt his hopes darkly dwindle.

So caught in his thoughts was he that he had failed to pay attention to his footing, and on a gentle incline he stepped upon unsettled and loose rocks. The jerk of the fall immediately ripped away his reverie, and his arms pin wheeled as with a crunch the stones below his feet gave way with his weight and his balance tipped. Sam howled in surprise as the world lurched and he slipped backwards down the hill. His body struck the ground and sharp pain flooded through him. He rolled down in a daze, rocks and stones jabbing at his flesh, his stomach heaving and his lungs clenching. Over the rush of the blood in his ears he could hear naught. Forever he seemed to tumble before he struck the bottom. Once there, in a daze he lingered.

Quite a few moments passed before Sam regained his senses enough to hear Gandalf calling to him. The wizard stood atop the outcrop, his white robes glowing in the meager light, his staff held aloft. More distressing still was the shriek that made Gandalf's worried voice all but inaudible. The piercing scream filled the night, high-pitched and ear shattering. Sam sat up in panic, forgetting the pain of his battered limbs. His fingers quickly and frantically came up to his neck and felt about his shirt, but they touched nothing. The Ring must have come free from his neck during the fall! For a moment, this terrible thought failed to elicit any response from his body, fear and shock paralyzing him. Then again came that dreadful howl, and Sam sprung into action.

It was so dark! In the shadow, the glint of the Ring was hidden, and he searched with shaking hands the ground, inquisitive fingers pressing through the hot dirt in desperation. Where was it? Sam's panic consumed him, and hot tears flooded from his eyes.

He heard Gandalf's cry then. There was a burst of light ahead that spread like lightning over the area, and Sam averted his eyes at its brightness. Another wicked screech shattered the quiet, and Sam winced. As the light rapidly faded, a gold glint caught his eyes. The Ring!

Frenzied the Hobbit leapt towards the glimmer as it disappeared from his sight. What he sought lay beneath a narrow ledge, the opening the Ring had precariously rolled through hardly a few inches above the ground. He could barely squeeze his sweaty hand through the narrow space. Sam grunted in panic as he blindly strained his fingers, his eyes blankly scanning the shadows ahead. He cursed himself for his small digits and chubby fist! He would never be able to reach the Ring!

Ahead came the beating of great wings, and Sam screamed. Atop the outcropping was the Witch King. It rode upon a massive stallion of midnight that pawed and clawed at the ground in rage, flapping wings of dark feathers that seemed as mighty as the horse's muscular legs. The Nazgûl was draped in blackness, but its long, pale blade it held aloft, lifting it to the sky. Bloody eyes that glowed red centered upon Sam's paralyzed form. With a howl, it charged down the hill. It was coming to claim its Master's possession!

Sam could not wonder about the whereabouts of Gandalf; the wizard's safety did not cross his mind. He spoke not, traumatized and terrified, and reached even further in painful panic. His heart stopped beating and he could barely find the strength to breathe. Hot sweat dripped down his face. The tips of his fingers brushed upon only cold rock and grimy dirt. The thunder of hoof beats was excruciatingly loud, and the demon was nearly upon him. He would never find it!

Just before the Witch King could strike with its vile blade, Sam's fingers contacted the metal chain of the necklace. Euphoria and panic combined to form a dizzying relief, and the Hobbit grabbed what he had found. He wretched his arm free, lifting the Ring into the night air, and dove to his side. His clumsy, sweaty fingers nearly dropped the trinket, but only the silver chain tumbled into the shadows. The Ring he clenched in his palm tighter than he had ever before held anything.

The Witch King howled, and its mount reared. Sam scrambled back, his body shaking in absolute terror, his feet scraping against the ground as he struggled to put distance between the enemy and himself. The horse snorted and cried, its massive paws smashing the rocks into dust as again they descended with a heavy thud. The wicked sword turned in the gauntlet of the demon. Each finger was tipped by more a knife than a nail.

Petrified, Sam clutched the Ring to his breast and skittered back further. Chilling panic washed over him as his back struck something hard and unforgiving. A rock. He was trapped.

"Hobbit…" hissed the demon. Its breath was a blast of scalding air. The Witch King dismounted its beast with a loud clank of metal and the swish of its cloak of night. Sam watched in shock as the hooked boots of the Nazgûl stepped closer.

The rush of blood in Sam's ears was deafening. "Stay back!" he pleaded in a hoarse voice. The Ring burned in his palm, and the urge to simply drop it and run was a seductive call. He could not, he knew. He could not abandon the Ring to the hands of evil!  _He could not!_ "Stay away from me!"

The white sword descended with the sound of sliced air. Sam screamed shrilly and scrambled forward as the blade sliced clear through the boulder behind him, reducing rock into dust with one mighty swing. The small creature crawled frantically, feeling a rain of sharp shards descend upon him.

The Witch King would not be deterred. Its fierce silence was more disturbing than its howl as it rounded on him, the pale blade cleaving the air in a long, lighted arc, and Sam sobbed in hopeless fear. There was nothing he could do. He would die here!

A soft caress filled his mind then, warding away the desperation and depression, and he listened to it willingly. It spoke in no language that he could decipher, but the words were a cool balm, soft and soothing. It promised safety, and his panic began to abate. A little thing. A precious thing. It would help him. He escaped in it.

Vaguely he heard a cry. "No, Samwise!" A part of his mind that had not succumbed to the Ring's easing tale moved and cried of logic. Gandalf was alive. Gandalf was shouting to him.  _"Do not wear the Ring!"_

But it was too late. In his daze he innocently slipped the burning Ring onto his finger.

The world melted in an explosion of light. The brightest of white that would have put the noon sun to shame bled around him, but it was a bizarre thing, for the illumination was tinged with the darkest of shadows, and suddenly he could see with astounding clarity. There was a great rush of wind yet no sound. Sam felt the air whip around him, raking hot fingers through his hair, and he looked up. In this place burned by white, he felt heavy and slow. Yet he clambered to his feet. His eyes were wide in fear and dismay. The Lord Angmar, once shrouded in the darkest of colors, now was a king. His sallow face was eyeless and shriveled, and his emaciated skin seemed dry and ancient. A great mane of white, stringy hair fell from beneath a pale crown. It was truly a grotesque sight, and Sam screamed. However, his voice made no sound, and he staggered back as the bony hand of the Nazgûl reached towards him. Was this the twilight illusion of the Ring that Frodo had seen? Was this the strange dimension of truth it bestowed upon its bearer?

Sam mindlessly watched, unable to make sense of what he saw. His mind was overloaded, and it simply ceased to try to understand. Behind the Nazgûl came a streak of red light and a dark figure approached in billowing robes waving about a staff. The piercing cry of the king never came to his ears, though he saw the jaw open in fury. It turned, the pale blade blending into the streaking white, as it faced whatever behind it that had troubled it. Sam gasped then as the Witch King battled, its blinding white body burning into his eyes and scarring his heart. He should have thought to run. Instead he stood transfixed and fearful as ahead there was another great burst of red and orange. This was different than what had deterred the demon before him. This was monstrous and perilous.

_The Eye._

It was all around him, and he could not escape. The fires of its lidless gaze consumed him, peering into him, uncovering his heart and his mind. Its glare was brutal and dangerous, and Sam cowered before it. A great black pupil at its center seemed fathomless, betraying the evil of the observer. Ai, he had been found! The fires licked at his skin and he dropped to his knees, curling himself into a tight, protective ball with his hands over his head, as its peering and unrelenting stare knew every fiber of his being. In this vacuum came the horrible, deep chanting. Over and over again the words spilled from everywhere, filling his mind and driving him mad.

 _Take it off_ , his mind ordered. His fingers weakly wrapped around the Ring. It tortured him.  _Take it off!_

With a cry, he ripped the accursed thing from his finger. In a breath it was all gone. The fire faded, and the twilight disappeared. The gale of the wind abandoned its blustery torment. Disoriented, Sam felt his stomach twist in dry heaves, and he gagged. His whole being shook and quivered with what had just violated him. Such intense evil… A winded sob cracked from his throat, and he wept, damning himself for relenting to the Ring's song!

A hand gripped his shoulder and he looked up in fear, his heart jumping into his dry throat painfully. He immediately worried it was the Witch King, and crushing relief beleaguered him when he met Gandalf's worried gaze. "Stand!" commanded the wizard in a frantic, hushed voice. He was dirty and winded. "We must fly! It will not be long before it returns! Fly!"

Sam was weakly hauled to his feet. Gandalf's old, large, warm hand grasped his own and yanked his numb body into a run. The wizard's white robes filled his vision, but he felt he could not see. A great pit of guilt, terror, and shame sucked down his heart, and Sam lowered his head and cried. He could feel it now. The Ring held tight in his other palm was singing to Mordor, calling to it, as though it had suddenly found itself to be traveling through its home. It was beckoning the black watchers of this land to find it. Undoubtedly the dark spirit of Mordor was returning the twisted melody. The Ring and the evil soul had again found each other, and it was his fault.

Time lost meaning as they ran, and Sam wept piteously. He had failed. He could not undo this! As the wizard and the Hobbit flew across the dead lands of the Dark Lord Sauron, the black night suffocated Sam, and he drowned in his grief. Alas, he was weak indeed! Fate have mercy upon him! He had tried so hard! He could not erase the sight of that fiery watcher from his memory!

The Eye had seen him, and it as well would never forget.

* * *

Something was horribly wrong.

The trees were screaming a warning, but Legolas could not understand what they were trying to tell him. Their forlorn song had twisted into a terrified melody of danger that ripped the dozing, exhausted Elf from restless sleep. A keening wail of impending peril filled his heart with dread. Their alert was strong enough to jostle the disoriented prince into attempting to stand, but his brutalized feet painfully reminded him that they would not support his weight, and he slumped, defeated and frightened. He could do nothing, he realized, but sit and listen.

Legolas' wide eyes darted all around the camp of the Uruk-hai. The beasts were paying him no heed. Though the night was still deep and dark, he could make out the forms of his captors standing among the trees ahead. They seemed engrossed in a matter obscure and hidden from the Elf. Legolas released a slow, painful breath and tried once more to rise. He did not know the nature of this danger that the trees were belting out to him, but he was sure he needed to flee. The air hung still with unsaid and unnatural threat, and it hurt to Elf to breathe it as he grunted quietly. His leg muscles cramped uncooperatively. He cursed himself for his failing endurance and Saruman for his blasted penance! He could not stand, much less run with his feet as such. Panicked, Legolas raised his bound hands up to his mouth and, using his teeth as an anchor upon one of the loops, pulled at the ropes. They were securely fastened; tugging at them did nothing. He had doubted it would, but he could not simply allow himself to be the victim of whatever darkness about which the forest now cried!

His movements had drawn the interest of the Uruk-hai, and Legolas dropped his hands. Chilling desperation stilled his racing heart as their yellow eyes ate at his fear hungrily. He had to get away. The warning rose to a scream in his mind. He had to now!

Aggravated tears burned his eyes as once more he tried to stand. The effort beaded sweat upon his temples and he could not stifle his groan of agony as he carefully yet rapidly tried to put his weight upon his torn feet. The trunk behind him was sympathetic to his plight, providing support to his quivering body, but it did little good. The Uruk-hai laughed heartily at his feeble endeavor and neared him. Legolas tried to take a step but hot pain shot up his calf and knee, and he staggered and fell.

A fist wrapped into his hair as he lay gasping on the ground and hauled him up. There was chatter in Dark Speech and a hearty roar of euphoria. Legolas squeezed his eyes shut as the trees' cry stabbed into his heart. The Orc pitched him forward carelessly, and the young prince stumbled, skidding across the hard forest floor before collapsing once more. For a moment he remained still, gasping for breath, clawing at his composure and his resolve. Then he was made to look skyward.

Saruman smiled broadly. "It seems," he said evenly, his voice betraying no small amount of satisfaction, "that the Halfing to which you delivered the Ring has made the error of wearing it." In his hand the wizard held a peculiar glass orb that swirled of dark blues and purples. It rested innocently upon the white palm, long, elegant fingers clasping it tenderly. "Do look, dear Legolas. See the fate of the one you burdened in the  _palantír_ , for it knows all things that the Eye sees. See how futile your defiance has become."

He did not want to gaze into the orb, but he found he could not resist. His wide eyes were drawn to its swirling, lulling colors despite his deep desire to avert them and his fear. The tempest of deep hues shattered, burned away by angry flames, and Legolas winced. The Eye of Sauron laughed maliciously as it receded, exposing to him the huddled form of Sam, buffeted and weathered by an unusual gale, quivering in the sight of the great evil power. The Elf stopped breathing. The Hobbit's tiny hands were covering his head. The bright Ring he bore upon one finger. Dear Sam… Clearly Sam had never found Frodo at Amon Hen that day so many weeks ago. The brave, little fellow had obviously taken upon himself a quest meant for greater creatures! What grave tiding had befallen Sam to force him to wear the One Ring? What horrible fate had Legolas pushed upon him? Terror and anger clenched every muscle of his body, and he watched numbly as the vision faded, leaving the glass stone once again as dark and forbidding as night. Shocked, he looked up to the wizard. "You vile monster…" he hissed.

Saruman laughed outright. "Child! The Eye has found the Ring! I told you it would, did I not? I warned you that it was inevitable, unstoppable! This black destiny you have brought upon yourself!" The demented Istar's tone was twisted to almost a high pitch in pure, jovial elation.

Legolas lowered his eyes. Whatever strength and courage had driven him now faded quickly and without regard to his present predicament, leaving him reduced to shuddering in defeat. A tear escaped and streaked down his dirtied cheek as he bit into his quivering lower lip. It could not be! Surely it could not!  _Elbereth, protect Sam where I have failed!_

The trees strained their voices, but the warning came to numb ears. In the black sea of suffering and depression that now become the Elf's heart, no light entered. He was lost in the dark waves, gone in the murk of his misery. Everything he had endured… Everything Sam had undergone… Wasted! Oh, his angry heart screamed shrilly in fury where his lips would not!

The silent moment did not last long. Saruman's hand found its way to the Elf's chin, lifting Legolas' ashen face. "My beautiful Elf," he said quietly. In his voice was unspeakable danger, and the trees hollered into the empty night. Legolas jerked, but the nails tightened upon his jaw, holding him immobile. Behind him the Uruk-hai's rough grips upon his shoulders and hair kept him kneeling. Panic slowly crawled into the pit of Legolas' stomach. His pulse raced. He could not break free! Saruman smiled cruelly. "Do you remember what I swore to you the day you became mine?"

Legolas grunted, tears filling his eyes and collecting in a stinging pool. He could hardly breathe. Terror shook him to his very core, and he wriggled vainly. When it become clear he would not answer, Saruman grinned again, arrogant and unfazed. "I told you then," he reminded, his tone, though soft, sounding low and vicious, "that I would rid you of your purity and see the strength of your sick Elf blood fail you. I promised that I would reduce you to nothing but a coward in the darkness, yearning for death. I vowed to make you neither prince nor Elf." Legolas bit into his tongue until the warm bitterness of his blood trickled into his mouth. Saruman was calm as he handed the orb to a nearby, leering Orc. Gently his other hand pressed to the quivering Elf's cheek. "I believe it is time I kept my word. A parting gift, if you will."

The forest shrieked. Before the terrified Legolas could even think to struggle, the wizard's grip turned hard, the long fingers cutting into the flesh of his face. He could not look away as Saruman's black eyes locked unto his own and dug inside him. The wizard was chanting, lowly and quietly, and the words were rough and rotten. The serene gaze crackled with power, and Legolas choked on his sobbing breath as the strangest of sensations came to him through the grip upon him. At first it was merely uncomfortable, crawling over his body with a sick caress of augmenting evil. When it reached his chest, it turned into a consuming fire that burned and ripped. Shear agony coursed over him, and he was helpless in its grasp. Something inside him was dying, crushed by the darkness. He could feel it wither, and it hurt and frightened him like nothing had ever before. The part of his mind still clinging to his sanity ordered his limp body to move, to do anything to prevent this.  _No! Fight!_ But he was helpless. The pain turned the world violent and white. Saruman's eyes would not release him, and the wizard glowed bloodily in the bleached surroundings. He felt his mind crack, his sight shift, and his heart was raggedly sundered.

The Elf screamed.

The savage deed was done. The trees were weeping.

A quiet moment then passed. Saruman released Legolas. The wizard wobbled a bit, apparently drained and winded from his exertions. He opened his mouth to speak, perhaps to taunt further or gloat his victory, but closed it slowly, for the words would fall to deaf ears. His prisoner had mercifully passed out at his feet.


	14. Herald of Faith

_Legolas._

He saw him in every memory. Blue eyes alive in laughter. Blue eyes cold in anger. A young face that held so much beyond his grasp. A brotherhood with Aragorn. A kinship to the forests. Elegance unparalleled in battle and song. A peaceful purity and innocence. A wisdom tinged by naiveté. A beauty of youth not meant to be hurt or betrayed.

Yet he had betrayed him. He had betrayed them all.

He saw everything. Vaguely he knew himself to be dreaming, but he could not will himself to wake. Legolas' defiant gaze. Legolas' blood and fear. Legolas taken into the shadow. With the vision came the shame. It was all around him, chasing him, choking him, and he could not bear to outrun it. Instead he collapsed to his knees and shook as the tempest of swirling emotion overcame him. He screamed as his guilt and shame drowned him, as his anger and spite burned him, as his grief chilled his heart into silence. He clasped his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut as again and again his deeds rammed into him, torturing him with their cruel truths, and all at once he lived the horrible moments again. The loss of Aragorn's treasured trust. Merry and Pippin hateful and angry. Gimli enraged. Sam and Frodo swept aside by his desires. He was no friend of theirs. He was no friend to himself.

_Legolas._

Into Orthanc he had dragged him. In Saruman's wretched clutches he had left him. Perhaps he should die for such a crime. Perhaps it would be the only punishment worthy. He wept for himself pitifully as he shouted for the torture to end. He could not change the past! He could not erase the vile error of his ways! He could not remove the Ring's grimy grasp upon his tortured soul! Oh, he wanted to! These memories that picked at his heart's flesh like hungry crows would not listen as he pleaded. They would not accept his apology. They would not allow his nobility to return. They would not permit his redemption! Damn them!

_Legolas._

A quiet moment near Hollin so many months past. The Fellowship had been tense and silent then, each unsure of their companions and distrustful of races unknown. Few words had been shared, and those that were were laced with misgivings and doubt. He remembered then seeing Legolas stand upon a hill overlooking their camp, the cool breeze buffeting him, pulling at his pale hair and clothes. Yet resolutely the archer had kept watch. Silent and steadfast. Enigmatic and easy. Powerful and peaceful. Soft words shared in an instance of private connection.  _"I came because I chose to. I am an Elf and a prince. Just as you would protect your people, I protect mine. I will do everything I can to see Frodo succeed. You need not doubt me, Boromir."_

_"I would not presume to. You seem of a good stock, though I know little of your kind. If Aragorn finds it within himself to trust you, then I will afford you a token of good faith."_

A quiet laugh.  _"I have known Aragorn for many years. He is a sympathetic friend and we are of equal minds on many things. I respect his word above much. If he has come to value your presence, then I shall as well. We are friends bound by a common goal, brothers, perhaps, through another. That shall be strong enough to tie us together!"_

It had not been. It would never be. He had destroyed their bond, made a mockery of their trust. Friends torn never again to be reunited! And the lust for the Ring would not be denied.  _Fight this. Do not give in! Do not let it take you!_ His defiance was snatched away by his greed. In his hand he saw it. On his finger he felt it. The great Eye he embraced, and he called to the Dark Lord in violent acceptance!

There was a shrill scream of absolute agony and terror.

_Legolas!_

Then the storm abruptly abated, and it was still. In a world of white he lingered, and he could not feel. A numb sense of peace overcame him, and he opened his eyes. He saw a battlefield spread with the bodies of Elves festooned in the colors of Mirkwood and Rivendell. A triumphant army of men gathered, shouting their victory to the sky, waving the banner of his father's glorious crest. He witnessed that field turn bloody and black, and watched the army of men fall at the hands of an unending stream of Orcs and demons flooding from the black gates of Mordor. All the horror of a second darkness came to Middle Earth before his eyes. This was the future. He felt it deep inside, knowing the truth in a calm sort of way that neither enraged nor disturbed him.

Something else came to him. There was a quiet voice that spoke in no language, yet he understood everything it said. What he had seen was a perversion of the future. It was not meant to be. Vaguely he comprehended that he had caused it. His weakness and deception had resulted in the changing of fate in a way that turned sour the course of all Middle Earth. He had made this future.

Yet, as this voice serenely spoke, he realized an unnerving point. Something more had been destined at Amon Hen for him, and his taking of the Ring had thwarted that plan. In a flash he knew himself to be lying upon leaves and dirt, black arrows protruding from his chest. There was no pain. Aragorn knelt over him, the ranger's hand clasped tightly in his own. Tears and solemn acceptance. He felt his lips move.  _"I would have followed you, my brother… my captain… my King."_

It was gone a quickly as it had come, but he knew what it implied.

A soft, familiar melody filled his mind, and he basked in the gentle words. Last he heard them they were a discomfort that inadvertently had stroked alive in him the desire to do well for his kingdom with the Ring. Now they were a gentle instruction and a peaceful eulogy.  _"Seek your peace, son of Gondor, and do not let your guilt deter you. Do not falter when the great choice comes. Restore your heart. You will know your redemption. You will find your rest."_

_I will._

* * *

The sun broke through his eyelids, and Boromir awoke. For a moment he lay still, his body feeling strange and disconnected. His grogginess was slow to fade, and his mind was jumbled. The man from Gondor shuddered. Everything he had so vividly seen in the dream was quickly receding into a hazy recollection that made little sense. Surely it had been something great, something important, a message of sorts… Yet it left him no answers. As Boromir leaned up and looked around, it all but disappeared. For reasons he could not explain, he felt wrong, as though misplaced and unnatural, and his gooseflesh prickled.

Fleeting as well was a soft touch and a quiet, feminine voice. It reminded him of the Lady of the Golden Wood, but that seemed more a figment of his mind than actual truth. He brushed aside his misgivings as the sense dissipated into scattered thought.

The woods of Amon Hen were quiet this morning. It was still quite early, but more than the chill of the air wracked Boromir. He had dreaded returning to his place. Every moment he spent here was another reminder of what he had done. Every time he closed his eyes a thousand painful memories he sought to keep at bay poked their way into his consciousness and plagued him with guilt and sorrow. Yet there had been no choice but to travel once again to this forest. It was little more than a hope, but the chance remained that the boats that the Fellowship had used to first arrive at Amon Hen from Lothlórien were still resting upon the banks. They had no other means to cross the great Anduin; even Elves as resilient as the twin sons of Thranduil dare not swim it. So many tracks littered the forest and the plains surrounding it that Astaldogald, though Boromir was impressed with the Elf's tracking prowess, could not discern fresh footprints from aged. Thus they had come to Amon Hen at the behest of the son of Denethor. Astaldogald believed that Saruman would not travel unnecessarily north to enter Mordor. Though that path placed the wizard close to Barad-Dûr, it was lengthy. Rather, the Elf prince assumed that Saruman would cut across Rohan and into Amon Hen quickly, to reach Mordor through Minas Morgul. This path, though closer to Minas Tirith and thus a bit riskier, would deliver the wizard into the safety of the black land earlier. Boromir had to agree with the Elf's logic.

So they had driven east, inevitably marching back to the very place this nightmare had all started, to the very land where Boromir's heart had failed him. Where he had lost himself. It had been a trying flight for him. More than once he had argued with Astaldogald on the matter of the horses they had left behind. It had not bothered him much when they had departed Isengard, but as the miles wore on and his feet and mind grew weary for a rest that the Elf princes would not permit him with their urgency, he had begun to resent Astaldogald for refusing Prince Éomer's offer of additional mounts. The reason had seemed sound at the time and almost unnatural of the conceited Elf. The men of Rohan required the horses more than they. A legion of wounded soldiers still waited at Helm's Deep, and they would need all the animals possible to carry them back to Edoras. Astaldogald had sacrificed the mounts the twins had had for that cause. He claimed the gift was not of sympathy but of logic. The road before the Elves was long and their pace must be rapid; horses, though beneficial at first, would become a hindrance when tired. Furthermore, they would not be able to cross the river or survive the treacherous descents and rocky terrains of Mordor. Boromir had been inclined to believe the Elf. Surely, though, they would have made faster pace across the plains and into the forest with horses, and the trip would have been less trying upon them all. They had indeed made great time, traversing such a massive distance in little more than four days, but it had been costly upon their endurance, and even Astaldogald was silently fatigued.

Yesterday Boromir had come to understand more of Astaldogald. The aloof, arrogant Elf at least held a personal stubbornness in common with Legolas. Many a time on their journey through Moria, which, though the archer had hid it well, Boromir knew to be a difficult experience for him, Legolas had refused aid or even concern, claiming it was not his place to burden the others. At least Legolas held grace and eloquence; Astaldogald was only cold and demeaning, as though insulted by the offer. Boromir remembered the sharp words shared at dawn the day before.  _"Silence your whining, son of Denethor. I warned you that you would need to keep pace. The issue of mounts is now moot, for we are well beyond acquiring them now. We could not afford to be slowed by animals that too easily exhaust themselves."_  Boromir had bristled at the clever insult. Haughty Elf! Legolas held no such racist and prejudiced mindset. What had twisted Astaldogald so nastily to create such an infuriating creature?

The two twin elder brothers of Legolas were a strange pair. Astaldogald's harsh tongue and cold glares aggravated, and Aratadarion's meek silence unnerved. This Elf was so quiet and calm. During their flight from Isengard he had spoke but a few times, and even then the words were pruned to only what was necessary to make his point, and his tone held no emotion, subdued and soft. They were like night and day, one of light complexion and gold spun hair, and the other of a darker hue and locks of the deepest brown. One of little patience, cruel wit, and vicious retort, and the other of strange, melancholic peace that confused and upset. It was clear to Boromir that Aratadarion did not favor his twin's wretched attitudes. Yet the other Elf never sought to quell his brother's venomous bigotry. Never did he stand up to Astaldogald and bade the other to keep his peace. Boromir thought him a spineless coward for it, for never would he allow Faramir to embarrass and disgrace their family name as such. However, he knew that whatever queer relationship these two held went deeper than simple domination and submission. It was a peculiar thing indeed! The man would go so far as to say that these two sons of Thranduil were both shades of Legolas. Astaldogald was the part of the archer that was headstrong and powerful, that was cunning and quick, and fiery with passion. Aratadarion held Legolas' softest facets, his love for the trees and other creatures, his quiet countenance and gentle aura, his peaceful voice. Two extremes fashioned in two twins, and then combined together in a third brother. It was most unusual, the family dynamics of the House of Thranduil.

Moreover, these two brothers spoke much in their silence. Boromir was not particularly well attuned to perceiving the mindsets of others, but there was definitely a strange air that saturated these two. There was a division that held unspeakable tension, and Boromir was sure it was over Legolas. Whenever Astaldogald spoke of their need for urgency or of their father's commands, he did so with something Boromir could not quite place in his voice, and Aratadarion would stiffen and seem most disturbed. It was certainly not the man's place to pry into the private matters of blood, but he could not deny his curiosity. Obviously this task levied upon Astaldogald annoyed him, though Boromir could not fathom why. It was the duty of kin above all else to protect kin. What could Legolas have done that would so sourly turn his older brother against him? And Aratadarion, at least what Boromir could detect from him, seemed utterly torn, split between Legolas and his twin. It was clearly a matter festering with anger, grief, and unshed tears. He would not broach upon it.

He had not had the time, really. Come the evening before, when they had finally entered the thick forest of Amon Hen, he had been too exhausted to care much that the Elf brothers were silently seething. When Astaldogald had decided to make camp for the night, Boromir had happily accepted the few hours of sleep. He had lapsed into dream quickly and without reserve.

The man from Gondor stood and found his muscles stiff from overuse. He willed their painful protest into silence as drearily he scanned his surroundings. It was clear that dawn had been upon the world for quiet some time. Why had Astaldogald permitted lazing? Sleep, when before the Elf prince had allowed it, had constituted a meager few hours during the darkest parts of night, and they had roused well before the dawn to continue their run. Why now this lapse?

He spotted Aratadarion seated upon the forest floor against a tree trunk. Boromir opened his mouth to speak, but his face cracked in confusion and the question he was poised to ask about their delay disappeared. "What has happened?" quietly he whispered.

The shy Elf was crestfallen. His face was pale and broken in sorrow. Silently tears rolled down his white cheeks, tears that he made no move to hide or wipe away. His dark eyes held deep pain and loss. After a long moment Aratadarion sighed and bowed his head. "It is Legolas," he softly said.

Boromir blanched. Inside his heart began to throb and he felt dizzy. Something horrible had occurred. Terror grew from panic, and he silently implored the other to continue.

The Elf gave a shaking sigh wrought with stifled weeping. "There is a bond between Elves of familial blood," he explained. "As his brothers, at all times we knew Legolas' suffering. His pain became ours. That is why Father sent us to find him. But now… He is quiet."

"Quiet?" rasped Boromir, his mind reeling.

Aratadarion nodded solemnly. "I cannot hear him. It was a sudden thing, as though he was yanked from us. As though he was…"

Boromir stiffened. Rage flooded him. "Surely you do not think…" His angry tone trailed off. No! It could not be true! "Is he dead?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"I do not know," whispered Aratadarion.

The man was livid. This could not be! Boromir's heart screamed as his hopes withered. Would it be in vain? Had his sins truly murdered his friend? The warrior felt his eyes sting and his body shake. He had come to find his redemption and to make right what he had wronged. He had come to save Legolas from the darkness into which he himself had delivered the other. Certainly there was still some chance!  _I cannot have already failed! Oh, please let this not be true!_

Astaldogald approached, carrying a clump of herbs and sticks of kindling. Boromir's broken gaze sought him for confirmation, but this Elf had only grown colder. The man could detect his pain clearly, though the prince sought to hide it well as he stuffed the supplies into his pack. Once graceful, composed moves had turned jerky and absent-minded. Clear eyes were shadowed with raw grief. Was the absence of their younger sibling's cries more striking than the cries themselves? "What say you of this?" he snapped despite himself.

Astaldogald's gaze narrowed dangerously. "Watch yourself," he hissed, "for this is no business of yours. Do not meddle in matters you do not understand."

Boromir clenched a fist. "It is a concern of mine," he retorted angrily. "Legolas is my friend as well!"

"Oh, really?" Astaldogald gave a curt laugh that stabbed Boromir with more than simple insult. The words he had thoughtlessly spoke ached inside; how carelessly he lied for his own sake! "Tell me, Boromir, what part did you play in our brother's fall?"

Cold horror flashed over Boromir so strongly he nearly lost his balance. He felt the color drain from his flushed cheeks.  _Hold your poise! Let them not see you for your lies! Hold steady!_ But the accusation was too much. "Legolas did not need protection, nor did he want it. You clearly did not know him at all if you think such. He bravely met his fate," Boromir coldly declared in his defense. His gall astounded him. What right did he have to say such a thing to the brothers of the one he had condemned? How could he use Legolas' courage in the face of the shadow Boromir himself had created against the Elves? Yet he could not stand to have Astaldogald blame him!

Astaldogald regarded him, and the Elf's piercing gaze seemed to delve too deeply into Boromir's hidden horrors. The man stiffened. "I see the guilt in your eyes," hissed the Elf. "You might think me daft, but I know you keep from us what truly happened in these forests. This place haunts you. You are plagued by it." Boromir tried to remain impassive, but he was sure some of his fear and shame twisted his expression. "Legolas' foolish friendship with Isildur's heir betrayed him, of that I am sure. Did Aragorn abandon him here to the mercy of the Uruk-hai?"

Boromir gave an insane chuckle; he could not help himself. Astaldogald thought Aragorn responsible for the plight of Legolas? Ludicrous! In this absurdity, he could only laugh. This stupid Elf! His hate twisted his thinking beyond all recognition. "You know nothing if you think Aragorn would ever deceive Legolas. The two were more brothers than friends. I ask you now to abandon your bloody witch-hunt and direct your mind to your kin. We must make haste now if indeed he is greater trouble." The next words he added simply out of cruelty, but in this too he could not stop. "Your father would not be pleased if you fail, and it seems to me that already time has run out."

The hateful words burned in the air. Astaldogald's face turned taut in fury. For a moment, no one spoke. No one had the audacity to even breathe. Boromir wondered if they might now fight, for the moment was wrought with unspoken despair and rage. It was the culmination of days of pent-up frustration, anxiety, and distrust. His hand slowly crept to the hilt of his sword at his waist, though he did not break his glare upon the other Elf.

It was Aratadarion surprisingly that severed their murderous bond. "Please, I beg of you. Keep the peace. We cannot fight like this!" The desperate words, laden with grief and fear, cut the silence.

Astaldogald snorted quietly and lowered his gaze to his despondent twin. Then he turned his back to Boromir. Quiet words in Elvish were shared between the brothers, and the man immediately resented them for their secrecy. Aratadarion nodded weakly. His long fingers came to wipe the tears from his cheeks. "Show us to these boats you say exist here, Boromir," declared Astaldogald quietly. "The hours are escaping us."

They were running again after that. Boromir's heart and mind raced in anticipation and dread. He felt sick in these woods; the trunks were more a cage than anything else, locking him into his memories. Most disturbing of all he felt the Ring's staunched song reverberate inside him, singing in the wind that caressed the leaves of these trees, shouting in the thud of their feet against the floor. It called to him, beckoning him, and it took all his will to hold it at bay. The craving for the sweet ebb of its power rolling over his body shook him. There was no peace for the man of Gondor in these woods. If not the black memories then the heat of the wondrous Ring assaulted his senses, and he could escape neither. When they came to the sight of the battle maybe an hour later, the keening wail of his shame grew louder, and his stomach clenched so tightly he thought he might vomit. The reeking bodies of the Uruk-hai littered the ground, infested by flies and foul in their demise. They had once been his comrades. How could he have been so evil?

Finally they reached the shore. The Falls of Rauros roared to their right, dumping water with unfathomable crushing force to the river below. Boromir breathed heavily and glanced up the bank. He could have sworn this was once the camp of the Fellowship, but all signs of their supplies were missing. Boromir's brow wrinkled in confusion. It was entirely likely that Aragorn had stowed the boats elsewhere after the fight. He had not been there to see the new location. He felt heat crawl into his cheeks and Astaldogald's vicious gaze drill into the back of his head. He knew their impatience. "Come," he finally spoke. "The fight was fast and furious, and I am disoriented. The camp might have lied further up shore."

"Indeed," said Astaldogald smartly, but Boromir had already broke into a jog, turning back into the woods and flying further north. His quick eyes were directed to the bank, searching for signs of use. In this he concentrated, and in doing so was able to ward away the dark guilt and rage. Eventually he arrived upon another clearing where there was room enough upon the shore to beach boats. Winded he drew to a stop and looked about quickly, hoping to find evidence to mark this as what he hoped it was. To his delight upon the muddy gravel and sand were footprints: imprints of boots and wide bare feet. The steps of Hobbits. Boromir's eyes trailed to where the water lapped upon the ground, and sure enough he detected ruts of a heavy boat having been pushed by a creature inadequate for its weight. There seemed to be more than one set of small, bare footprints, and they looked relatively fresh. For a fact Merry and Pippin could not have produced these; they were young in the soil and both Hobbits were in the company of Aragorn. Logic dictated but one conclusion: these were the marks of Frodo and Sam continuing to the eastern shore. It had not occurred him at the time to wonder, for Frodo's absence, though noticeable, had only been one less painful reminder of his sins. Yet now he pondered. Could Sam have returned the Ring to Frodo?

Boromir had become accustomed to feeling torn over his thoughts, and this was no exception. As he quickly ran over the possibility, he felt rather relieved that maybe some right had come of his wrong. If Frodo had the Ring again and was forging onward despite all that had happened, then there could still be hope. There was still a chance the Fellowship might succeed. Yet he was also bitter and hungry. If Frodo had the Ring, it also meant the precious trinket was beyond his reach, and despite all he had done the Ring would still be destroyed. What a vile waste! He resented the Hobbit then since the Ring had returned to the small creature and not to his own hand. This outrageous desire he stomped out angrily.

The man snapped from his momentary musing and turned to look around quickly. There, under some recently shoved aside thrush, was one of the boats. Boromir smiled in spite of himself and silently thanked Aragorn for leaving behind the means for him to reach Legolas. "My memory deceived me not." The lie slid far too easily from his lips, but he did not care. The Elves watched as the man went about pulling the overturned vessel from the protective shrubs. After a grunt or two, Boromir had righted the small craft upon the shore. He looked up to his companions.

Astaldogald cocked a fine eyebrow warily. "It seats but two," he remarked quite casually.

Boromir nodded, breathing heavily from both the excitement and the exertion. "That it does." He eyed the Elf princes warily. It was obvious what this meant. Since all three of them could not cross the wide river at once, two consecutive trips they would have to make, a pair moving across with each. This indeed would be time consuming, but it was their only option. Boromir did not trust the two of them. Since they had left Isengard, the sons of Thranduil had made it starkly clear that he was nothing but an excess concern, a burden with which they had been cursed. Whether or not the fear was rational, Boromir felt certain that, given the opportunity, they would gladly leave him behind. He enjoyed their company no more than his pleased them, yet separating here was simple folly. If he allowed the two of them to first cross the Anduin, leaving himself upon the western shore, there was no assurance that one would indeed row back to acquire him. That was a risk he could not take. "I will row back and forth with you each," he declared resolutely, forcing enough vehemence into his voice so that they would not doubt.

"Have you the strength for such a strenuous activity?" questioned Astaldogald.

Boromir jerked. It took all his will to fetter his anger. "I do," he announced simply.

The Elf seemed to contemplate a moment further before relenting. "Very well then. I will go first." This he said without consulting his brother for agreement, but Aratadarion spoke not. Quietly the meek Elf stepped back as his twin settled himself into the vessel. Boromir steeled himself. He was very tired, but this was the only way to be sure he would not be left behind. He took the only oar and began to paddle.

They were quite some distance from the first shore, and that they had covered in a tense quiet. Boromir could feel the suppressed rage and disgust radiate from the Elf prince before him. Yet he only rowed, saying nothing of his own feelings, uncomfortable in the silence yet unwilling to break it. In truth he wished to be friends to these two Elves. Though they were only kin to Legolas, in their presence he felt closer to the one he had lost in the shadow. They gave him hope despite the black forebodings of their words and of his dreams. The water felt thick and heavy as he pushed them across. The sun was hot. After nearly an hour, the other shore they reached.

Astaldogald gracefully lifted his slender form from the boat. He cast a look upon Boromir as the man pulled his leather gloves from his hands. Into the water he dipped them, and then he splashed the cool, soothing liquid upon his heated, sweaty face. "Are you well enough to fetch my brother?" asked the Elf softly. Immediately Boromir thought the other to be insulting or testing him yet again. But there was a quiet concern laced into Astaldogald's tone that seemed misplaced compared to its usual sharpness.

Boromir regarded the other for a moment, heartened by his inquiry for once. "Aye, I can." Water ran from his eyes like tears. "I came to help you, son of Thranduil, not to hinder you."

To that the Elf said nothing, but Boromir had not been expecting a response. The man turned then and began to row tiredly back to the other side. His arms cried out painfully from the burning strain, and his heart was beating in an exhausted fever. No matter how hard he rowed he never seemed to go any faster, and the other bank seemed so far away. He would not slow, though. This was his duty. Redemption was not an easy prize to win.

Aratadarion was waiting for him patiently when he arrived some time later. The quiet one offered the winded Boromir a gentle smile as he stepped into the craft. "I will row now, son of Denethor. You seem flushed."

"Nay," Boromir gasped, shaking his head. Sweat plastered his sandy hair to his brow and clung uncomfortably to his scalp. "I can-"

"It is no bother," responded Aratadarion. The lithe Elf took the oar from his weakened hands, and Boromir did not resist. His hot breath slowly returned to a gentle rate as he watched Aratadarion assume his post.

They traveled the clear blue waters with urgency but without heat. Boromir observed the back of the Elf as he rowed steadily. This creature was powerful, though his muscles were deceptively small and thin. His hidden strength mirrored Legolas' .

After a long while, Aratadarion quietly spoke. "The son of Arathorn did not betray my brother, did he." It was not a question, but the statement dangled before Boromir, and the man had to answer. He could not find it within himself to lie despite all his anger and confusion.

"No," he said quietly, "Aragorn did not." He was unable to hide the shame in his low voice.

The Elf sighed softly, and it sounded almost melodic. "I did not believe so. Though I met him but a few times, Legolas was so close to him. It was not anything I understood. My little brother, though brash and impudent, has a great heart, and only one with a heart as big could be such a good friend to him."

Boromir narrowed his eyes. This was a conversation he had wanted to avoid, but here he was faced with it, and he could not run away. Into the dark blue of the Anduin he stared. This river was as deep as his misery.

"My twin does not want to believe that there was no fault in Legolas' decision. I think he is just afraid to see beyond the ways of our Father. I do not blame him in this; he has a right to his attitudes as much as Legolas does his own." The quietly dipping of the oar rhythmically into the river seemed so loud. "He means well."

"I do not doubt," said Boromir.

A quiet moment. Then Aratadarion spoke again. "Thank you for tolerating him. He says much to insult because he knows no better. You take it well."

The Elf's gratitude seemed genuine, and it shocked Boromir. He stared blankly at the other, unbelieving at this tentative connection between them. He felt honored to have it. But then he questioned his worthiness. Such a sick mockery of justice! "Do not thank me," he murmured quietly, "for I have done nothing to deserve your appreciation. I have caused much sorrow for you."

He wanted to make himself regret the words. Still, he wished more than Aratadarion would see the truth for what it was and take back his offered truce. He yearned for no more than rejection! He could not in good faith accept the other's trust!

Aratadarion said nothing, but Boromir felt it in the still air that smelled of the sea. The other did indeed understand. A tension crawled in place of the truce. He wondered now what to say. He did not know how to feel.

"You said Legolas bravely met his fate, and that brings me comfort. Father once told us that we are nothing if we are not Elves, and Elves do not ever abandon their courage. I pray… his will did not fail him."

A uncontrollable tear slowly fell down Boromir's cheek. "It did not." Aratadarion did not ask him how he knew this. It was clear though unsaid. How could the Elf simply accept this?

"His silence deafens me."

Boromir took a deep breath. "Perhaps you fear more than is warranted," he offered. The words were weak, but he could not help but say them. He had to offer something to great vacuous pain that devoured their peace.

There came a sad laugh that broke Boromir's spirit. "My brothers have many a time told me that I am weak of heart and mind, and that my pessimism is too great, even for an Elf of song. It is a funny thing, really. In that, Legolas and I most differ. His melodies are of the sun and the trees, of light and love. Mine tell tales of melancholy and wisdom." He rowed steadily, as if in that continuity he found strength. "There is little than can tear an Elf from the bond he shares with his kin. What can is frightening."

Such finality in those words! Boromir felt his body shake in grief and rage. For a moment he could not speak, his heart swollen in shame. Shame for what he had done. Shame for what he had not. Shame for what he could now not prevent. Yet the cloudy remnants of a promise shrouded in dream eased him, and in that he found courage.

He tentatively clasped the forlorn Aratadarion upon his slim shoulder. "Legolas never lost his hope," he said quietly. "For him, hold onto yours. You will yet see him again."

They were silent a moment, as if judging the truth in Boromir's words. Then Aratadarion sighed gently and continued to row. They were nearly to the eastern shore, and Astaldogald was waiting. Now they would continue their quest.

* * *

Until midmorning did Sam and Gandalf run. The wizard pressed onward and onward, never slowing, never resting, though Sam's stout legs cramped in pain with each rushed step. They flew over hill and gully, and the Hobbit all but faded away in his depression. Each blurry scene before him was just one more in this black prison, and he lost track of the time. Eventually he grew so weary that he felt his mind slip into delirious dream. His body moved of its own accord, his panic and Gandalf's pulling enough to will him into movement. When again he regained himself, they had stopped.

Gandalf released Sam's tiny hand as the wizard glanced about. Overhead the sun was peeking through the clouds. They had taken respite in a small valley, and black rocks jutted all around them like false trees. The wizard seemed satisfied, for the boulders would provide adequate protection. Then he sat upon the ground gingerly, a grimace contorting the old, bearded face. He seemed very weary and ancient.

Sam sniffled. His eyes were painfully dry and gritty. For a moment, he could not find the strength to speak. The silence between the Istar and the Hobbit had become unbreakable during the night. Sam had not known how to excuse himself. The anguish he felt now, in the wake of the disaster, was too great to simply brush aside his need for consolation. "Gandalf," he whimpered softly. His voice was scratchy and harsh in his throat and ears. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

The wizard looked upon him neutrally a moment, and the other's face was so empty of emotion that Sam felt sure that he forever marred Gandalf's faith. Then the wizard smiled weakly. "Mistakes made cannot be undone. The past cannot be changed. Since this has started, we have all erred. It is the nature of things." Gandalf sighed gently and looked upward. Shaking relief tentatively claimed Sam's heart as he watched the old and kind man. "I as well must take blame, Sam. I should have realized that my presence in this black land would become too obvious to the dark forces. Undoubtedly I drew to us the Witch King. For that, I apologize. My emotions overwhelmed my logic. The closer to Barad-Dûr we travel, the greater my power attracts the senses of Sauron." A pensive and regretful sigh ruffled Gandalf's beard. "I shall not endanger you or the One Ring again."

The Hobbit swallowed uncomfortably. "What are you saying, Gandalf?" he asked softly.

Gandalf did not answer immediately. The wizard closed his eyes and seemed to sag. The creature beneath the heavy white robes suddenly appeared worn and small, as though a great destiny was upon his shoulders that weighed upon his heart with a destiny he chose not. "I am called elsewhere, Samwise. Yes, I do believe I am." Sam choked on his breath. Gandalf lowered his dark eyes and met the Hobbit's gaze squarely. "I feel that Sauron is not the lone threat to Middle Earth. He has many spies and many allies. The treachery of Saruman has grown deep indeed. It is high time I faced my fallen companion. That was my burden to bear in all of this, and I have shunned it too long. More good I can do with that task than with yours. Here I draw unnecessary attention. There I will have Saruman face my wrath."

Cold terror throttled Sam. This could not be happening to him. Surely it could not! Surely Gandalf was only jesting! His denial was adamant. "Mister Gandalf, sir…" he moaned, his weak lips barely moving, "please don't say such things! You do it to tease me, I know, but my heart just can't take it!"

"It is no joke, Samwise."

Stunned, Sam could think to say nothing else. He felt ripped from his body. Another moment of this never-ending nightmare was now passing, and he did not know if he could even feel his distress any longer. It had become intense and pulsing, violent and bleeding, he doubted he could face it alone.

Gandalf knelt before him then and pulled the Hobbit into his embrace. It was enough to break Sam's resolve, and the small creature let out a low, painful wail into the wizard's shoulder. He cried in utter defeat. He could not again be alone! He could not stand it! "Come now, Samwise. Shhh. You need not cry. There is much yet in which to have hope!" The wizard patted Sam's back as his body shook in great waves of despair.

Sam finally quieted and, though Gandalf's arms were strong and supportive, he pulled himself back. "How can you say that, Gandalf? Where is there hope to find?"

The wizard smiled tenderly. "Look here," declared he quietly, taking Sam's small hand and placing it over the small creature's heart, "and you will find you all the courage you need. Fate places the most important of tasks on the strongest of people, though not necessarily the greatest or wisest. Or even the tallest." Gandalf's large hand affectionately ruffled the curly mop of Sam's hair. The Hobbit sniffled. "We are meant to undertake the tasks we do, Sam, no matter how unlikely or unfair it may seem. That is an encouraging thought, after all. It means that we each have the power to do what is asked of us." The wizard squeezed his hand. Those dark eyes that held so much wisdom and power twinkled. "Never lose your faith. It is the only part of you that you yourself must abandon. It cannot be taken from you. Hold tight to it, and you will find your way."

The words were calming prophecy, after all, and Sam, though frightened, returned Gandalf's grin weakly. The wizard seemed heartened by it. He stood with the sound of old joints cracking. He groaned and stretched almost comically. Then he turned to the Hobbit. "Be brave, Samwise Gamgee, and always look forward. Remember that distance can separate bodies but not souls, and I will never keep you far from my thoughts."

"I will, Gandalf. I know what I have to do." It was only thing he could think to say.

Gandalf smiled again. "I believe in you. Hobbits are made of greater stuff than they seem!" The old, wrinkled face grew resolute and comforting. The wizard's hand lingered upon the top of his head a moment longer. "Farewell." Then, with a swish of robes, Gandalf turned and left.

For a long time Sam stood still and watched him walk away. When the pure white was lost to the dark rocks, he finally looked elsewhere. He did not know exactly how the old wizard's words had done it, but he felt his optimism returning to him. The tears were drying upon his cheeks. The Ring rested in his coat pocket now, and he took a deep breath. It called to him, but he would not listen. He would no longer listen to anything aside from his heart. He was alone in substance but not in spirit. He would again find his path.

Thus he departed, resuming the trek to Mount Doom. Much had changed, but his burden had not. It was his to hold, his to bear, his to beat. And he would beat it. Of that he was sure.

* * *

Boromir looked around carefully. He needed no Elvish senses to feel the illness of these woods. The trees were sick with suffering and iniquity, drooping and dark. Once, he knew, this place had been pure and beautiful. Before the corruption of Sauron, Minas Ithil had been a majestic place of men. The woods had been lush and thick with peace and prosperity. The city itself, which rested further south and adjacent to Minas Tirith, had been a strong place and a post to monitor the black workings of Mordor. The sister towers of Ecthelion and Cirith Ungol had symbolized to all the valor of men. Now the latter was a dark place of ghoul and Orc, and the beautiful groves, once fed by the rush of the Anduin and nurtured by the love of its inhabitants, were sparse and dead.

They had traveled in silence since departing the western shore, but the unspoken anxiety had amplified with each step. Astaldogald had led them south then, following the tracks of recent travelers. Though the dry, stony ground held few clues as to Saruman's direction, bent limb and disrupted twigs, in conjunction with logic, was enough to make the Elf prince sure of his choice. Aratadarion seemed tense and frightened in this place, his wide eyes constantly darting, and his face almost looked queasy from unclear disturbance. It was clear now that every step led them closer to discovering the nature of the uncertain terror flouting each of their resolves. Each moment was a torturous wait, and gazes were constantly in search for sign or evidence of what had happened. They were fearful of what they might find. They were horrified of what the truth could be.

Now they took a respite. Dusk was coming, and this forest was black enough without the light of the sun to pierce the shadows. Boromir had thought that in the waning light they might miss vital trace of Legolas. Once morning again came, they would have a better chance of being vigilant in their search. Astaldogald had not countered; the man knew the Elf prince was tiring. The argument was essentially dropped before it even began. For the moment they would calm their minds and hearts for the sake of resting their bodies.

Boromir turned his attention back to the bit of dried meat in his hand. He knew he should eat; he would need all his strength to maintain such a grueling pace, and he was already fatigued quite seriously. Still, this place made him nauseous. Something unnerved him, but he could not place its nature, and this irritated him. Frustrated he returned the morsel to the supplies. Aratadarion seemed equally jumpy. The Elf sat across from him, breathing deeply as if to ease himself. Perhaps he as well felt as disconcerted. "What ails you?" quietly Boromir asked, his curiosity and concern getting the better of him.

The Elf jerked as though ripped from deep repose. Then he licked his lips. His face was so white in the shadow. "These trees… they are sad. They sing as though crying."

"Crying?" Boromir incredulously asked. Aratadarion nodded and lowered his head. When he offered nothing more, Boromir had to press. "For what reason?"

Astaldogald snapped, "It is obvious, is it not?"

Boromir looked at the two Elves, feeling utterly lost and confused. He had noticed that, in the last few hours as they drew deeper into Minas Morgul, the twins had begun to literally drag their feet. They had changed, and Boromir had not been attentive enough until that moment to care really. Something was seriously upsetting them both into a strange, lethargic mood. The man felt his anger return at their obvious refusal to inform him of whatever had so upset them. "It is not to me," he declared coolly. "Would you mind explaining what disturbs you so?"

Astaldogald's anger was a vicious flash. "This is where it happened, you fool." Boromir stared at him, dumbfounded but beginning to unfortunately understand. "This is where Saruman killed Legolas!"

Aratadarion winced. Tears were building in the young Elf's gentle eyes, and again he lowered his gaze in shame. Boromir glanced from one to the other, his eyes caught between their fire and ice. "You are sure?" he asked in a strained voice, again feeling the dread stop his heart.

Astaldogald flushed in fury. "Why do you doubt? This cursed forest! It blares it for all to hear!" he shouted, rising to his feet. The slender prince was tense with rage and what Boromir hoped was grief.

 _Be calm. Keep your wits about you._ The man took a deep breath to wipe away his anger and fear. He centered his gaze upon the sunken Aratadarion. "What do they tell you?"

"Do not question-" hissed Astaldogald.

"Quiet!" barked Boromir in fiery irritation. "I did not ask it of you to answer me!" The Elf prince bridled in raw spite but closed his mouth and said no more. His face was a mask of murderous contempt. Once Boromir was sure the other would stay his tongue, he returned his attention to the meek twin before him. "Speak, Aratadarion. What are they telling you?"

The silently crying Elf seemed to nearly quiver, as though a little child before squabbling parents. Finally, in a hushed voice that betrayed his fear, Aratadarion declared, "I know not. I can only feel their despair. They speak in a tongue I do not understand. I have not Legolas' skill in appreciating the moods of forests." He closed his eyes and shook his head. "I am sorry."

The words at once relieved and haunted Boromir. "If you cannot understand their words, then why do you take them for the worst? Perhaps they weep not for Legolas' death!" he argued, angry at their skepticism.

"It makes no difference," retorted Astaldogald sharply. "Legolas has been dragged into shadow. His pain has been silenced! His will, broken! Either he is dead or…"

"Please do not say it," moaned Aratadarion despondently. He cringed and drew his knees tightly to his chest as if to protect his heart.

Boromir shook his head in confusion. What could possibly be worse than death? "I do not understand," he admitted. Though it hurt his pride to appear ignorant, it was but a small grievance.

Astaldogald hesitated a moment, as if trying to force something vile and wretched from his mouth. Though clenched teeth he declared, "An Elf broken becomes an Orc."

Silence. The knowledge was rotten and cruel. Boromir stood in shock, unable to digest what he had heard, unable to make sense of it. Orcs were made of Elves? Such disgusting blackness came from undying perfection and beauty? Impossible! "You… you lie," he stammered in denial. Astaldogald did not have to respond to his words for Boromir to know their fallacy. The Elf had no reason to deceive him. It could not be so! He then remembered the strength he saw in Legolas' bright blue eyes as Saruman had taunted him. He knew the courage of the other's heart. Legolas' will was unfaltering, unwavering! His heart was great and vigorous! Saruman could not break it!

Yet this too he knew to be a silly fantasy. He had felt the sick waves of power from the fallen Istar. He had seen the malicious corruption hungrily devour the sight of the prisoner he himself had procured for the wizard. Legolas was powerful indeed, but even he would not have been able to long withstand the sick blackness for so long. Still, Boromir could not make himself believe. Sinking into the thought rid him of his faith. He would not believe it!

"Still Legolas would be alive," he heard himself say, his voice a shadow of despair and doubt.

Astaldogald laughed. The sound was short, sad, and angry. "That is not  _alive_. That is a sick demise of the soul, a change never to be undone! An Elf turned Orc is not an Elf. It is a demon of the dark, a slave of the shadow. Beauty scraped away and blood turned to mud! If an Orc he has become, he is as dead to us were he mortally wounded."

Rage burst inside the warrior of Gondor. "You prejudiced child!" he spat.

"Do not presume to judge us!" shouted back Astaldogald. "It is the truth! These trees cry. Legolas is silenced. There is no other conclusion!"

"It does not matter," declared Boromir, his tone livid. His angry eyes flashed to the pathetic form of Aratadarion. "I told you to have hope. I told you to keep your faith! Yet you abandon it quickly in the face of an ill omen! This is nothing more than that! And in abandoning it, you would abandon Legolas!" he surmised in a heated accusation. Had his words before meant nothing? Had that gentle friendship been a fake?

Astaldogald stepped closer, coming to stand between Boromir and Aratadarion, clearly in defense of his twin. "Your condemnation of our ways is not welcome, nor is it wise," he announced quietly. Unimaginable threat lingered on his words. "I have tolerated you for many days, son of Denethor, and I grow weary."

"And I of you," returned Boromir. "You two are truly a sad lot. Stay then, you cowards! Sulk! Leave your brother to his plight! Your blood is thin indeed. Your hope is weak, and your hearts are vile. You shame me, and you shame Legolas. He is a great Elf. Though you are much his senior, you are but his shadows."

Bright rage flashed in the Elf's eyes. But before Astaldogald could further speak, Boromir turned. "If you will not find him,  _I_  will." Then he quickly stalked into the black, shadowy woods.

As he walked, his anger mounted. Insolent, wretched Elves! How could the purity of Legolas come from such a stock? He did not care then that it was his own weakness that had caused this all. He did not care that he had no right, really, to say such things to them. He was as cowardly as they, as pitiful and sick. He was no more valorous, no nobler. Yet he at least would not give up. He would not lose his hope. He would do as he promised. He would search onward, even if he must do so alone. This was his duty, his obligation. Redemption would be his. And if the weight of his shame and his burden should become too much, would he fight again to prevent his fall? This he wondered, and then this he answered.

_I will._


	15. Black Tidings

Deep in the belly of Minas Tirith, Aragorn smoldered. The reason for his anger was painfully obvious. The cell into which the fractured Fellowship had been placed was hardly bigger than a cellar. It was a dank and cold place, for here the light could not reach and the sun could not dry the moisture that seeped up into the ground and collected upon the floor. Black iron bars, thick and unbreakable, blocked the only exit, too evenly and tightly spaced for more than perhaps a hand to fit between. The ranger paced the small length of the cell darkly. When he pivoted, his heel ground with crushing power into the floor. Had he not been so involved in his irate musings, he might have noticed the winces of the silent Hobbits with each step.

It had taken them more than a week to reach the White City. He had urged them onward despite exhaustion and hunger, feeling time press upon him and his guilt chase him. It seemed a wretched thing to him to have abandoned Legolas for a greater duty and then have to wait still to act. The passage of days had tortured him, and he hated what he was becoming. His rage forever now seemed his companion. Though he tried to stifle his anger and make peace of the conflict inside his heart, he only failed and grew more frustrated still. His fury had driven him from Isengard, with the remains of the Fellowship forever in tow. Hasufel's stride had been mighty indeed, and he might have made excellent time if not for the sluggish pace of the Hobbits especially. He did not wish to blame Merry and Pippin for their at times irritatingly slow wit and movement, but he found himself doing so regardless. Gimli seemed to drag his feet as well, and with the Dwarf, though the ranger would not admit it, he sympathized. Gimli had no business in Minas Tirith, and this quest was depriving him of means to find Legolas. Only loyalty had pushed the stout warrior's rough heart into the journey. Aragorn wondered if perhaps that devotion was misplaced.

Only Haldir remained silent and quick. The Lórien Elf led Arod at Hasufel's side. For once Aragorn was glad for the aloof creature's steadfast resilience in this task that had been laid upon them. Together they had blazed the ancient trail from Isengard to Minas Tirith once more, clinging close to the old road. It was the most direct route and by far the safest. As they had drawn closer to Minas Tirith and deeper into Gondor, Aragorn had pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and instructed the others to do the same. Remaining inconspicuous at the time benefited them greatly, for the road became busy with merchants and common folk milling about in daily chores as they passed through town after town. Some ogled and stared at the company upon such fine horses, but most thankfully ignored the trail-worn bunch. Still, their attempts at secrecy had not prevented what occurred at the gate to the White City. Aragorn had been completely baffled and then miffed that the king's guards had awaited their arrival and without struggle or even clear reason apprehended them. He had demanded answers that they refused haughtily to give, and the man, the Elf, the Dwarf, and the two Hobbits had been thrown into the dungeon most unceremoniously.

This disgrace was the memory of a few hours passed, and in that time Aragorn's anger had turned from a mild annoyance and impatience at a likely misunderstanding to a burning irritation and concern. Long had he yearned to return to the White City. Though for him it meant recognition of a duty he had denied and a birthright he had tried to forget, he could not deny the pride that pulsed inside him when finally a day prior he saw the peak of the magnificent Tower of Ecthelion puncture the clouds. Minas Tirith was truly a glorious place, and as its pearly beauty was unveiled beneath the rays of the morning sun, he remembered a conversation shared not long ago with Boromir. Though now he detested the son of Denethor, he could not refute the truth of Boromir's words. The last stronghold of men was beautiful and great. The castle and its banners stood tall and intimidating. He had not imagined his homecoming to the place he hoped to one day rule would be so strange and infuriating!

"Rest your feet and our minds, son of Arathorn," admonished Gimli. The Dwarf sat against the wall, his eyes closed but his expression taut in anger. "Your pacing is truly trying upon me."

The ranger looked to the son of Glóin, but said naught, biting back a sharp retort. It would do no good to take out his annoyance upon one as undeserving and endearing as Gimli. So he simply abandoned his repeating walking and instead stood near the prison door. Dirty hands wrapped around the bars, testing once again the strength of their making. The door would not budge, study and securely locked. He had known it to be a futile undertaking; the prisons of Gondor were among the strongest ever built. Regardless he felt his boiling rage rise again within him. What was the meaning of this? Would no one unravel this mystery?

Pippin sniffled. In the narrow room the sound was unduly amplified. "Why do they keep us here? What wrong have we done them?" he asked despondently, looking to the ranger for answers. "It must be past noon now, and we haven't even had second breakfast!"

Merry clapped his cousin on the arm. "I think there are other matters a bit more important than second breakfast, Pip," declared the Hobbit quietly. His wide eyes turned as well to Aragorn. "Don't they know you're their king?"

The matter perplexed Aragorn. To the captain of the guard he had announced his presence, his business, and his intention to seek an audience with the steward of Gondor, Denethor. Yet to this information the soldier had but snorted and told him to keep his arrogance to himself; in Gondor, blood and loyalties must be proven, not assumed. It was not the reception Aragorn had expected. "Surely they do," he muttered quietly, unable to rid his voice of venom. "I know as much as you, Merry. If more was clear to me, I would not hide it."

"Perhaps they perceive you as a threat," offered Pippin dismally, "though that seems silly. I thought the men of Gondor were a wise lot!"

"I suggest you revise your attitude," muttered Merry disdainfully. After a beat, he went on. "Even if they did think Strider a menace, why then take the Elf?" His voice held much fear and worry.

Aragorn stiffened. It had been a troubling thing. When led to the dungeons, they had been split from Haldir. The Lórien Elf had not made much a scuff or struggle as guards directed him elsewhere, though Aragorn had demanded a reason for their cleaving of his group. He had only been awarded a blow to his head that left the room reeling and even now dully throbbed. The event unnerved him. Though he counted Haldir perfectly able of protecting himself and their purpose in Minas Tirith, why they had singled out the Elf for their enigmatic plan remained shrouded in suspicion and puzzlement.

He did not answer the Hobbit, instead sighing slowly to draw together his composure. It was constantly eluding him, his calm, but he must remain resolute. He must not falter. Surely there was a logical explanation for this! Yet no matter how he twisted and turned the problem, no solution revealed itself. He could not imagine what could have so sourly turned Denethor's opinion against him. The ranger did not doubt that the steward was aware of his arrest; the guards at the gate had obviously been expecting them. The entire episode reeked of premeditation. Yet, why?

Time passed, and Aragorn could not conjure responses to his swirling thoughts or to Merry's unanswered question. Sighing in vexed exhaustion, the ranger settled his worn and worried body to the ground beside the Dwarf. "Confounded men," grumbled Gimli quietly. "They are too quick to act and too slow to think." Aragorn knew the insult to be made in desperate indignation and frustration, so he let it slide without retort. A deep, heavy silence then came over them, one as laden with shadow and melancholy as the air was with chill and moisture. Frustrated thoughts were directed elsewhere, perhaps on what was and what might have been, perhaps on loyalties voided and promises broken. Most certainly on hearts betrayed. Why now were they treated like prisoners and not even alerted of their crime, if there was one to be had at all?

Then some time later came footsteps down the hall. Aragorn's heart leapt and he jumped to his feet. Springing to the gate, he again grabbed the cold bars and peered down the corridor into the shadows. Behind him he heard the Hobbits shuffle and Pippin moan a fearful question that Gimli quickly shushed. The sound grew louder, closer, and from the darkness emerged men wearing heavy plate mail and bearing long swords. They flanked another man dressed in regal attire, though his crest seemed heavy upon his shoulders and his crown weighed his brow. He was an aging being of great stature; a face strong though weathered was covered in a graying beard, and he walked tall, though the work of time was clearly pushing upon him quite forcefully. Dark eyes were set deep into the pale face. Such a shadow added only more malice and suspicion in the gaze. As well, there was a tinge of what Aragorn thought to be grief.

Denethor approached stiffly. He stood before the ranger, eyeing the other with contempt, and Aragorn nearly recoiled. Instead the ranger forced mettle into his heart and respectfully dropped his hands from the bars. He bowed low before the Steward of Gondor. "Lord Denethor," he said quietly, keeping his eyes upon the dark ground though his mind was reeling, "I know not the meaning of this treatment. Please, good sir, explain why you have imprisoned us as such!"

"Rise, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. I wish to look into your eyes while I levy upon you my accusations."

Cold dismay and confusion prickled Aragorn's gooseflesh, and despite himself he swallowed uncomfortably. He felt his submissive respect dwindling as he righted himself and met the other's stony gaze. "Accusations? Of what nature?"

Denethor's face seemed tight with anger and mistrust. "You are in this cell by no accident. Serious reports of a great crime have come to my attention, and I could not allow you to roam about Gondor without first determining their validity."

"If you wish to lay blame, then do so clearly," barked Gimli from beside the ranger. Aragorn cringed inwardly. "The matters of men do not concern Dwarves, and you ought to release us, lest you make an enemy of the House of Glóin!"

Though Gimli had no cause to be respectful of Denethor, Aragorn prayed he would stay his frustration. It would not help their situation for the riled Dwarf to further anger Denethor, and Aragorn could not afford to complicate this matter. "You keep company with a man now, son of Glóin. If you concern yourself with him, then you must as well concern yourself with his crimes."

"What crimes?" Aragorn asked, trying to be calm and feeling incredibly perplexed. What could he have possibly done to so anger the Steward of Gondor?

Denethor's gaze turned piercing. "It seems that you meddled into the affairs of the Rohirrim." Aragorn blanched. His heart stopped. "Further, I have heard that King Théoden, both wise and brave, has died because of your ill advice! This is black news to all of Gondor, for long has the House of Eorl been an ally to the House of Ecthelion."

Spite burned in Aragorn's throat. "My Lord," he began, "King Théoden fell courageously in battle leading his men against the dark forces of Isengard! Yes, I did advise him in that action, but there was no other choice! The power of Saruman had grown black and great. Had not Rohan moved against him, they surely would have fallen!"

"Truly, son of Arathorn?" said Denethor coolly. "I have heard otherwise. I have heard a strange tale that you turned into a cold fury that used the Rohirrim for personal gains." The ranger stood still in disbelief of what was happening. "You lost a friend to Saruman, did you not?"

Aragorn nodded blankly and then declared, "Though that moved me, it did not control me! Nor did I use it to manipulate King Théoden to my own ends! You soil my loss and misery with such an accusation!"

Gimli's fury was undeniable and blazing. "Do not speak ill of Aragorn," snapped the Dwarf, "or our captured comrade. It is an open sore that still bleeds. Aragorn did nothing of the sort. To suggest as much, you surely must be daft!"

Denethor's eyes flashed coldly. "Watch your tongue, Master Dwarf. You too easily forget who is lord of this land." The sharp gaze returned to Aragorn, and suddenly the ranger felt a sinking sensation chill him. Obviously this matter with Rohan was but a small grievance. Something far greater angered the old man. "I cannot validate this rumor, though it most disturbs me. You are not mine to command or reprimand, son of Arathorn. Isildur's heir you may be, but remember that you hold no sway here." Anger coursed over Aragorn at Denethor's proclamation, but he held still his tongue. Submitting to his irritation and rage would do him no good. "What truly vexes me is another story come to me in days past." A glint of rage and sorrow passed in the lord's eyes. "It is a shameful thing, to learn of a child's death! Yet more troubles me than simply Boromir's passing, for I loved him greatly, and I seek to punish those responsible."

Pippin gasped. Gimli grew stiff. Aragorn's heart ceased its thundering pace in shock. For a moment, he could not think to object. His mind and mouth were numb with confusion and denial. "His passing?" he finally whispered hoarsely. The ranger shook his head. "Boromir is dead?"

"You of all people should know," hissed Denethor icily, "for it is said that you killed him."

Silence. Denial. How could this be? Certainly it was impossible! Aragorn's mind spun with the words, with the outrageous accusation leveled against him, and his stomach churned painfully. A dizzy plight came to him, sucking the strength from his limbs. For a moment he thought he might faint. "What?" he stammered. His voice sounded weak and empty.

"You jest!" cried Pippin suddenly. The Hobbit clambered forward gracelessly to the door. The small creature stood beside Aragorn, his chubby hands grasping the bars. "Boromir isn't dead! He was well when we parted with him! He's alive!"

"Silence, little one, and let Aragorn defend himself if he will!" Denethor cried, glancing to the Hobbit. Pippin's face broke in shame and anger, but he said nothing more, biting his lower lip and looking to the ranger.

Aragorn did not know what to say, but his anger was great and dark and his pain was consuming. As the shock faded, he began to wonder spitefully. What gave Denethor the right to imprison him unjustly based on mere gossip? Where had the lord found such gall? "I admit that Boromir tested my control days past, but I did not harm him. I would not seek to hurt a comrade." Aragorn narrowed his gaze dangerously. He was not about to simply stand idle as Denethor spouted such filth to mar his name! "Do tell me, Lord, where is your proof?"

Denethor sighed slowly, his great chest moving with the sound, and his angry glare loosened a bit. "Be thankful I have none, ere already you would be feeling the executioner's blade. Though it is but a rumor, it is very convincing. For the heir of Elendil to murder the next to inherit this city would be a sick twist of fate, but in these black times, I doubt nothing simply because it disturbs me."

"Who has said such vile lies to influence your opinion of me such, may I ask?"

"You may not."

Aragorn bristled. "It is hardly fair to accuse me of this crime and then deny me the right to confront he who besmirches my name!" he declared heatedly.

His anger was lost on Denethor. "Where this another time, perhaps. Yet black stirrings come from Mordor, and the shadow spreads west from Minas Morgul. I cannot afford to trust freely," the Steward of Gondor explained simply. "I know little of you beyond these treacherous tales, and I will not so blindly place my faith in you now."

Gimli growled. Aragorn knew what the Dwarf was about to say. He feared what the words might create. From mess to monster this situation would transform, and it then would be beyond salvation. Yet he was too hurt to intercede, and he simply let Gimli vent his wrath. "Perhaps you placed your trust in error before," hissed the warrior. "Perhaps you were in the wrong to hold in high regard your son!"

The old man flared. "You disrespect me with your tone!"

"I would disrespect you with nothing more than the truth!" Gimli shouted. "It was Boromir that betrayed us to Saruman. It was your own blood that allowed our comrade taken into the shadow! And it was his greed and weakness that gave evil its advantage!"

"Still your rubbish! I shall not listen to the words of traitors!" Denethor roared. Gimli glared at the lord with such burning hate that Aragorn did not doubt, had the prison door not divided them, the Dwarf would have throttled the Steward of Gondor. After a long, tense moment, the shouts receding painfully slowly, Denethor again spoke. This time his voice was subdued in grief and confusion. Clearly Gimli's words had upset him. Aragorn could not help but sympathize; it was no easy matter to lose a first-born and then stand to have his good name sullied. "You will stay here as I determine the validity of what I have heard."

There was nothing more to say. Aragorn could not defend himself with anything more than the truth, but he sadly realized that without proof, his story was just as unbelievable and unsubstantiated as Denethor's. It would have to momentarily end in a stalemate, as much as it worried him. There was not the time to waste! Still, the ranger resigned himself. He must have patience. "If you wish it," he said quietly, resolutely. "I have nothing to fear, for I know myself to be innocent."

The words sounded bold. Denethor suddenly looked greatly aged and worn, as if plagued by the difficulties of leading a lost people for far too long. "If I come to know such a thing as well, I will see you released with my sincerest apologies."

"Surely," replied Aragorn coolly.

Then the lord turned. He was a great man, but the shadow of his waning power was heavy upon him. Aragorn thought of Haldir then, and spoke of his concern. "I have but one small request of you," ventured the ranger. Denethor pivoted to look upon him again. "We came to Minas Tirith in the company of an Elf. Hours ago he was taken from us, for reasons we cannot deduce. Please return him to us, for the little ones worry." Aragorn laid a comforting hand upon Pippin's head, but did not break his gaze with the lord.

After a moment, Denethor slowly nodded. "I know not what has become of him, but I will have him found and brought here." Then he resumed his walk, his honor guards following him closely. He faded into the shadow like a ghost, and Aragorn watched him in both anger and pain.

Gimli huffed angrily as soon as they were again alone. "Wretched creature! To think that you of all men would betray his son…" The Dwarf grunted and shook his head, his red hair and beard dark and bloody in the weak light. "Curse him! Curse him and Boromir as well!"

"Master Gimli, please, hold Boromir in better esteem. He came free from the evil. He went to find Legolas! He came back to us!" Pippin declared quietly. The Hobbit seemed flushed with uncertainty, but, despite the glares from the Dwarf and his cousin, he continued on in his defense of Boromir. "He did what he did only for his people!"

"That is no excuse," grumbled the Dwarf. His face cracked in grief. "Ai, my heart does ache for Legolas! Those we left to help him are hardly worthy or reliable!"

They grew quiet with that, and Aragorn laid his head tiredly upon his hands. In truth, Denethor's words had greatly injured him, and he did not know what to make of his heart. He felt the strangest bit of shame for how he had acted towards Boromir. He could not deny that when he had discovered the other had abandoned Legolas to Saruman's whims he had wanted Boromir's life to end by his own hand. Now the murderous rage and spite felt sick and wrong. He had nearly become the monster Denethor implied. Had he as well pushed Théoden and his army into attacking Isengard in the vain hope that there they might find Legolas? Had his intentions been borne from grief and shame rather than from logic and valor? Had he indeed manipulated Rohan for his own vengeance?

Aragorn muddled over this, and as he did, his shame and doubt became loud and pronounced. Only when again footsteps shuffled down the hall did he emerge from his dark musings. He stood, ignoring the stiff complaints of his body, as once more the guards approached. Between them stood Haldir. The door was opened and the Elf was pushed inside the cell. Then, with a whining creak and a slam, it was closed.

Haldir stumbled and glared at the retreating backs of the men. "Insolent mortals," he hissed angrily in Elvish. The Elf looked unusually mussed, his typically pristine appearance riled. With long fingers he dabbed at the blood leaking from his nose. Clearly he had been cuffed.

"What happened?" Aragorn immediately asked, reaching out to steady Haldir.

The other shook away his supporting grasp and inspected the bright blood on his fingertips in disgust. Then Haldir took a deep breath. Merry and Pippin had both risen at his entrance, and he surprisingly gave them a quick nod, as if to reassure them that, aside from the bloody nose, he was uninjured. This seemed to relieve the Hobbits, and both returned to their seats upon the cold, wet floor.

Gimli grunted in anticipation. "Do speak, Elf. Why did they seek to separate you from us?"

Haldir shook his head. His eyes glinted in ire. "Great usury is afoot here. I erred before in my prediction that the corrupted Boromir would fight you here for power, Aragorn. The guards took me aside and led me to an interrogation. I thought it odd indeed until it became clear who meant to question me. That little snake from King Théoden's court, Gríma, has apparently slithered his way into Denethor's esteem."

Surprised, Aragorn asked, "Wormtongue here? Are you certain?"

"Quite," replied Haldir. The Elf raised an eyebrow. "Yet it was odd. He spoke to me not of you, but rather of Lórien. I had nearly forgotten that these men consider the Lady of the Wood to be little more than a witch."

Merry shook his head in confusion and regarded the archer with narrowed eyes. "Why would this Wormtongue care about the Golden Wood?"

Haldir pondered a moment. "That I could not discern. He thought it 'convenient' that I happened to come upon you immediately in Edoras before Aragorn decided to unveil his true identity. He surmised I bore some greater message or hidden agenda. Of course he was correct, but I did not validate his assumptions." The Elf looked concerned. "It worries me that one so cunning and vile has turned his eye upon my home. Surely he means ill will, yet I cannot uncover why."

This information brought more questions than answers, and they filled Aragorn incessantly. "How would Wormtongue know, though, that this was our intention?" he asked.

"I cannot say," responded Haldir, almost apologetically.

"I can," declared Gimli angrily, "because it is obvious. He as well is aligned with the dark powers of Saruman."

The thought astounded Aragorn, but as he pondered it, it began to make an angering sort of sense. Wormtongue had fled Rohan the night Théoden had decided to ride against Isengard when the advisor had lost his argument and the king's respect. At the time, Aragorn really had not considered the implications of Wormtongue's disappearance. He might have indeed gone to Isengard. It explained why Wormtongue had so vehemently sought to dissuade Théoden from the attack. Also it might account for why Théoden had been so indecisive over the matter for so long.

Yet it did not make clearer Denethor's accusations. It was not a stretch to assume it was Wormtongue that had corrupted the Steward of Gondor's opinion of Aragorn. The twisted little man undoubtedly had fabricated the lies concerning Boromir. Why was Wormtongue sabotaging his reputation in Gondor? Saruman might have decreed that he do such, but how had the wizard known of his intent?

There were many spies and dark powers afoot, and Saruman was wise and cunning. Logic, Aragorn supposed, dictated that the ranger's coming to Gondor was inevitable. Perhaps he had too easily trusted the ears of Rohan.

Haldir released a slow breath. "You make a great assumption, Dwarf, but a valid one." Gimli nodded, obviously grateful and reassured that the Elf was not only safe, but for once had simply agreed with him. "Tell me, what has come to pass for you while I was absent?" Haldir asked, looking to Aragorn.

The ranger steeled himself and briefly relayed to the Elf all that had transpired between himself and Denethor. When he was finished, Haldir seemed dismayed and angered, but clear in his purpose. "It makes good sense," declared the Lórien Elf, "for Gríma is a devious, twisted man, and he would use anything available to best you. Whether his intentions stem from Saruman's orders, we do not know."

Aragorn said, "Though I detest the man, I dearly hope it is not under Saruman's hand that he plots here in Gondor. I doubt that Denethor fully trusts him. The lord seemed riddled with strife and worry. This does infuriate me!" he admitted, feeling his anger gnaw at him. "In this prison, I cannot justly defend myself and time is a commodity we do not have!"

Haldir appeared sympathetic, for the Elf dropped his voice and rested upon Aragorn's shoulder a comforting hand. "We have no choice but to allow other forces to resolve this. Denethor seeks evidence, but we know he will find none. The wait will be aggravating indeed." Then Haldir lowered his eyes. "I worry as well for Lórien, and for my brother, Rúmil, sent riding north to Mirkwood. Clearly the evil forces are stirring, and I fear, unless we succeed here, that man will turn upon Elf in a final battle, and all will come to ruin."

"Nay, Haldir," said Merry sympathetically, "we'll stop that!"

The standoffish Elf looked to the Hobbit but said nothing. Merry offered him a smile and a nod, which his cousin mirrored. "We'll think of something!" Pippin declared resolutely.

Gimli grunted. "No harm will come to the wondrous Lady," he said in a gruff voice. The words were almost comforting. "I will not allow it. Her allies are many and great. It will take more than one scheming worm to defeat her!"

Then they became silent, and though the oaths and promises were meant to hearten, to the ranger they seemed horridly shallow. He settled to the floor and dove into his own contemplations. Aragorn turned the problem over and over in his mind, considering all angles and options, but he could discover no solution. The way of things continually sought to trouble him! If the forces of Sauron were indeed awakening in Gondor as Denethor feared, then time was of the essence. He could not afford this delay! Yet Haldir spoke truly; he had no other choice. He had no power to simply will himself free of this cell and these accusations. As he thought, the ranger grew cold and frustrated. He loathed waiting. His shame and anxiety would drive him to madness!

He was beginning to regret his decision to embrace his fate. Now faced with heavy shame of which he could not absolve himself, he could only wallow in hate and fear. How many things he had abandoned to meet his destiny! How much he had forsaken only to have fate forsake him! He cursed himself.

For a long time Aragorn thought. Many things flitted across his rambling mind. Some were a comfort and others a distress. Yet none held the answers he sought. When finally his heart grew weary with pain and depression, the heir of Isildur shrugged the world from his shoulders and lapsed into a troubled sleep.

* * *

Through the black, muddy lands of the Dead Marshes walked Frodo and Gollum. They traveled in silence, the cold air too heavy and rank for any gaiety, even if such a thing could ever exist between them. Trees sick with decay rose from the murky water like old, decrepit soldiers, forever trudging through the swamp but never gaining any ground. Everything was rank and dark; a thin layer of mist covered the water like a ghostly shawl. The spirit of the place seemed powerful and pressing with a sorrow and depression almost gleeful in its intensity.

Frodo shuddered as he trudged. The thick mud sucked him down with every step, pulling his feet into the ground deeply and hungrily, as if seeking to devour him. It made each movement a trial. They had worked to keep to a drier trail, sticking to land where possible and avoiding the sumps themselves. Now they had not been so fortunate, and the swamp through which they presently trudged seemed vast. The water came to the Hobbit's waist, and it was a cold, oily sort that smelled foul and turned his stomach. Yet he did not slow. He had a sad premonition that these sinking woods, though frightening and sickening, were the least of the troubles they had yet to face.

Gollum seemed unperturbed by their surroundings. Without fail the twisted creature led them through the winding marsh, unfazed by the heavy, oppressive air and undeterred by the maze of bent trunks. Sometimes Frodo wondered if Gollum had lost awareness of the Hobbit's company. They never spoke, and the creature slithered through the swamp, murmuring to himself in a determined moan, following the Ring as though tracking a sense. It was most unnerving to see. Frodo detested Gollum and still would not trust him. Legolas' knife the Hobbit at all times bore, and his reflexes remained quick enough to use the blade should the need arise. But Gollum simply ignored him, driving onward through the swamp with energy unmatched, and Frodo found it difficult to keep up. He wondered once more why he was. His reasoning had seemed sound enough. The eastern shore had given him no clue as to Sam's direction. As much as he had despised it, he had no choice but to follow Gollum. The twisted being at least was making a path to Mordor.

Frodo could not shake the thought that his quest was one and the same with Gollum's. Surely Sam did not have the Ring! How could he have obtained it? It made no obvious sense, but as the small, inquisitive Hobbit pondered, he began to realize it might indeed be the truth. Why else would Sam have continued alone into Mordor if not for this burden of the Ring suddenly shoved upon him? If the Ring had come to Saruman, why then was Gollum tracking it so vigilantly into the black lands, effectively heading in the opposite direction from Isengard? Frodo did not want to believe that the quest to destroy cursed Ring had fallen to the small hands of his dear friend, but he found that he could not deny no matter how vehemently he sought. It was a dark conclusion, for it meant that Sam alone had taken a great responsibility and would face horrible dangers. Frodo ached for Sam, desperate to again see his friend's slow, skeptical smile and sheepish, wide eyes. Brothers torn by fate are not easily kept apart! He would not rest until he found his friend, even if it meant walking deep into the heart of evil.

It was a strange thing, really, and as Frodo considered it, he grew more perplexed. In these days that had passed, he had grown nearly appreciative at times for Gollum's presence. Though the little demon cast upon him hungry eyes and traveled with sick energy, Frodo found himself grateful that another spirit accompanied him on this hazardous trail. When they had come to the swamp, he had been less than enthused about traveling through it. Gollum's silent pace had been a boon to him. Long ago, as the shriveled creature had explained, a war had been fought in the marsh. The conflict was known as the Battle of Bagorland. Many had died. This sad, gruesome tale had greatly unnerved Frodo, and when they had actually come upon the corpses decomposing in the muddy water, he had nearly lost his composure. These floating bodies only added to the ghostly spirit of the marshes, the silence of the air and water haunting the Hobbit in sleep and wake. But Gollum had not faltered, resolutely stepping around the floating skeletons in rusted armor as though he were avoiding a trunk, bush, or rock. His silent serenity at once disgusted and calmed Frodo. Whatever Gollum was, whatever he wanted, he was now the only thing Frodo had that could be called an ally. No matter how much he disliked the prospect, Frodo knew he needed to simply accept that. If Sam indeed had the Ring, there was no escaping Gollum's companionship for the duration of the journey.

Imagining Sam facing such a dark and scary place alone distressed him, so he diverted his thoughts elsewhere. During the long, silent hours, Frodo wondered and thought without end. He pondered what the others were doing and how Aragorn might be faring in his new quest to gain the throne of Gondor. Supposing the Ring had never arrived at Isengard eased him somewhat, for it both meant that there could yet be hope in their quest and that the mistakes he had made had not been so damning as he had previously assumed. Perhaps Sam could destroy the Ring. Perhaps Aragorn would defeat Saruman and unite men under his rule. Perhaps all was not so lost. These thoughts were dangerous though, for they seduced him with an uncertain hope that he could neither confirm nor discredit. Yet he had to allow himself this small luxury. He let himself believe that it all was possible.

So they trudged in silence. The swamp was thick and long, and the march was extremely tiresome. It took the better part of two days to reach its other side, and when again solid land came beneath his wearied feet, Frodo nearly collapsed in relief. Gollum did not stop, through, pressing onward to Mordor. In place of the swamp was a dry land, harshly deprived of greenery and unforgiving to his plodding feet. The further they journeyed, the blacker the terrain became, with great, sharp jutting hills and rock precipices that seemed narrow and dangerous. Behind them faded away moisture and clean air, and Frodo wrinkled his nose as they came to an outcropping. These lands were rank and putrid with a stench he could not quite place yet knew was malodorous and evil. Though the spirit of the Dead Marshes had been sad and foul with doldrums Frodo had never before so acutely experienced, the heart of Mordor ran dark with vile blood, and all the land reveled in the evil aura.

Frodo squinted and looked ahead. The sun was beginning to set, but the dark, gray clouds hid most of the rays. It appeared most dismal. There in the distance the sky bled as though into it an angry wound was constantly being ripped. Surely that bloody hue indicated the location of Mount Doom. The Hobbit stared at it, trapped in thought a moment. That was where Middle Earth had been marked by Sauron, where the One Ring had been forged and hence the only place it could be destroyed. That was where the Deceiver had played his cruel trick upon the free peoples of Middle Earth and grew in his power. There Sauron would bind them all through the other rings and rule with a cruel hand of destruction. On its slopes the Last Alliance had bravely fought and conquered. And, in the heat of that inferno, the heart of men had supposedly cracked under the temptation of the Ring. The fate of Middle Earth, it seemed, was forever tied to the flames and smoke of that mountain.

Gollum shifted and hissed from beside him. "Look down, good Hobbit. Sméagol sees something awful,  _gollum!_ Look!"

Surprised, Frodo glanced to the lands below them. He gasped, suddenly chilled with terror and shock, and dropped to hide himself upon the rock. Gollum shrieked and mimicked him. When again Frodo's heart conjured the courage, he peered tentatively over the edge of the precipice.

There below was a great army of Orcs. Across the barren, rocky fields it stretched infinitely like a horde of countless spiders. From their vantage Frodo fearfully tried to trace the outlines of the troops, but the shadows enveloped them before he could see their end. There were thousands upon thousands of the vile beasts. Frodo felt dizzy simply trying to estimate their number. Faint shouts filled the still, hot air, and there was a muted cacophony of stamping feet and clanking armor.

Beside him, Gollum clasped his grimy hands over his eyes. "Bad Orcses! Bad Orcses! Save us, gollum! Bad!" he wailed softly.

Frodo glanced to him and remembered to breathe. The lump in his throat hurt to swallow, and his mouth felt dry. "Keep your wits about you," he murmured. He returned his gaze to the army. What were they doing? After a moment the answer came clearly to his numbed and frightened mind. They were preparing to invade Gondor. They would march west, across Minas Morgul to destroy Minas Tirith. Oh, black tidings! This was very distressing. Frodo's heart pulsed in worry. Aragorn and the men of Gondor and Rohan would surely be caught surprised by the attack. Sauron's innumerable forces would make short work of their opposition in a bloody and torturous battle. The nation of men would fall!

 _There is nothing you can do._ He did not want to admit that to himself. Painful worry raced in his heart and caused his body to shake. He wanted no harm to come to his friends! He could not stand to lose Aragorn. The ranger had long been such a good listener and strong protector. He did not wish to see Gimli slain or Haldir lost. And Merry and Pippin… jokes shared in the past now seemed a painful reminder of how he would hurt if they should die. Yet the unforgiving logic of his mind beat his heart into submission. He could do little. Never would he be able to race back to Minas Tirith with speed enough to reach the men before the army of Orcs, and he did not even know the way.

Frodo felt frustrated tears burn his eyes. Releasing a long, shaking breath, he rolled to his back and looked up to the sky. The mesh of dark clouds held no relief. He could not turn back. Sam needed him surely. The black forces were rousing, building, and preparing. Simple danger no longer threatened Sam as he carried the Ring to its home. These were the sights of unfathomable menace, of unspeakable terror. How long could Sam protect that horrible Ring from the ears and eyes of Mordor? Frodo stifled a sob. He would not leave Sam. He would bring forth his strength for the sake of his friend. He must leave this information where he had found it. He could not go back. Forward he must go and faith he must have that the others could care for themselves. Sadly, this was the path he had chosen, and it did not allow him to retreat even for the good of Middle Earth.

To this he remained committed. Frodo inhaled deeply to calm his rattled nerves. Then he spoke quietly. "We shall go around them, quickly and quietly. If we make a wide arc, we can avoid them."

"Yes!" hissed Gollum. "Good Hobbit! Bad Orcses! We go around! Yes!"

"Hush, now," Frodo snapped, climbing quickly to his feet, "and stay close to me!"

They crept down the rocks stealthily. Frodo kept his senses divided between the army as they approached it and the perilous stones upon which they tread. Yet his thoughts were elsewhere. His mind was resolute in his quest. His heart was worried. How could he hope to do this? Mordor would kill him with its oppressive terror.  _"Without the Ring, I'm nothing remarkable. But I'm still his friend."_  He remembered his own words that he shared with Aragorn on the night he had decided to leave. They chased away his despair.  _Hold on, Sam._ This was his calling, his duty.  _I will find you. I will help you._

Sam had assumed a terrible burden, after all, and Frodo knew that that burden had been meant for himself. Fate had changed everything. Still, for a friend, for his brother, this was the least he could do.


	16. The Road to Walk

Something wet splattered upon his forehead.

The liquid upon his brow slowly dribbled in a chilly river, running down the bridge of his nose and into the crack of his closed eyelids. It tickled him. After what seemed like an eternity, another drop fell upon him. The force of it striking his skin felt incredible, and it followed the wet trail down his face. Then came another and another, on his cheeks and face, on his hands. It seemed that these rhythmic drops had become his existence. Quiet. The deafening roar of the tiny bead hitting his skin. Then silence once more.

Eventually his senses gained enough awareness to pull him from the lull of the drops. Slowly they parted with their sleepy lethargy and bombarded his body with demanding sensations. He was cold and wet. Everything ached with a rising insistence, and his arms and legs felt leaden. Hateful words and harsh voices resounded inside his throbbing skull, and it took him a moment before he realized the jeers and taunts existed only in memory. Still, the fear and panic rekindled within him, effectively chasing away the last bit of the calming void of sleep.

Legolas groaned and opened his eyes. The scene overhead spun endlessly, the mesh of tangled limbs overlaid upon rain clouds becoming a blur of brown and gray, and he nearly retched from the nausea. The moments became an agonizing torture as he lay still, riding out the waves of pain and dizziness, shutting away the whirling sky. Finally the queasiness abated, and he sucked in breath after breath to calm his shaking body and racing heart. A moment later he felt it safe again to open his eyes.

It was drizzling a cold rain, and his breath formed a weak cloud of vapor before his lips. The mist felt cool against his bare skin, and he shivered. The memories were slow to come. For a moment, he could make no sense of where he was or how he had come to be in such a position. But then from the haze of his pained thoughts came recollection. The Uruk-hai. Saruman. The trees screaming. Sam. Such a horrible pain. A vicious beating upon his heart. Then all that he knew was a frightening and formless void.

Legolas slowly sat up, and when the task proved more difficult than he expected, he realized his hands were still bound. His lower chest as well tightened and burned with the movement, but he did not allow that to deter him. The mist was slow to fade from his mind, but, as he glanced about the area, he knew something to be horribly different. This indeed was the glade within Minas Morgul where he had last seen Saruman. These trees were the same that had screamed a warning of impending tragedy to him. Now they were quiet, their silence perhaps louder than their shouts before, and Legolas shuddered. Why had they stopped singing to him? Moreover, why had he been left behind? He felt his heart thunder in panic. The jumble of his memories would not become clear, and he grew frustrated. Saruman had done something to him. Those long, white fingers had dug into the side of his face. The wizard's black, depthless eyes had delved deeply into his own. He had known agony, terror, and confusion keenly, his body and mind succumbing to panic. Then there had been a strange sense of disorientation. He had felt disjointed. After that? Nothing else was apparent to him. He did not know what had happened. He did not know how long he had slept, though judging from the sodden state of his leggings and hair, he had been out in a heavy rain for quite some time.  _"A parting gift."_  Despite all his uncertain, one thing was starkly and hatefully clear. He was sure that Saruman had arrogantly left him alone in this forest to die.

Angrily he flexed the fingers of his hands. The digits were numb and white. They would be little use to him unless he was able to remove the ropes still tightly tying his wrists together. Slowly Legolas pushed himself forward, bracing his hands on the cold ground to give support to his shaking, bent form. He struggled to stand. Dazed and fearful, he moaned. His body felt so heavy and strange. Intense, biting pain flowered from his feet and spiraled up his legs to settle in his knees. Instantaneously a gruesome memory flitted across his panicky mind, one in which he recalled the sad state of his feet after he had been forced to walk barefoot for days across unforgiving terrain. The joints buckled under the strain. The world pitched and with a cry, he fell forward.

Legolas hit the ground hard on his hands, sending a rough jolt up his arms. They provided enough support at least to prevent his head from ramming into the ground. A puddle of murky water was now beneath his face, and his reflection caught his eye. When he looked, he saw a stranger staring back.

He gave a cry of surprise and squirmed away. Panic welled up inside him, terror spurring his heart into a painful pounding, and he shook with more than simple chills. Numbly he could only lie a moment. Then he began to doubt. Perhaps it had simply been the trick of his abused and tortured mind! It took Legolas a great deal of courage, but slowly and tentatively he crawled back to the innocent puddle. He looked again.

There could be no denial. His reflection showed him a face that was not his own. Though the features were much the same despite bruises and blood, the eyes that he met were empty of light and void of spirit. His skin was so pale and dirty, and it lacked the glow of the Elves. Legolas felt his shaking hands rise of their own accord. Gently they traced the side of his temple, down his cheek, across his lips, as if in a desperate quest to convince his doubting heart that it was indeed  _his_  face he saw in the puddle. The water rippled, gently at first, but the motion became rapid and violent as his breath grew bated and rushed.

The trees had not stopped singing. He could not  _hear_  them.

It could not be! It could not!

Legolas screamed.

It made such sick, disgusting sense. The ravaging of his mind, the sundering of his heart. He had been split from the spirit of Middle Earth. His Firstborn blood had turned cold and lifeless. Saruman had ripped him from his making!  _"I vowed to make you neither prince nor Elf."_  What was this sick curse upon his soul? What had that black touch done to him? The place where the call of the trees so vibrantly lived within his heart seemed ill and vacuous. The void was so very powerful; he worried it might consume him, this harsh emptiness he felt! The soul of the Elves that so powerfully lived within him was crushed, gone, annihilated, leaving a stark coldness where once there had been life and love. He did not want to acknowledge its absence. He cried out to the old trees, begging them for but a whisper of recognition, but if even they could hear his wretched cry, their response fell to deaf ears. Severed from the very substance of his livelihood.  _Ai, Elbereth, make this not so! I cannot… I cannot…_

He was an Elf no longer.

For a long time Legolas numbly sat beside the twisted mirror. He could not think. He could feel nothing but sadness. His heart and mind had fallen into a vortex of despair and disbelief. Depression had devoured him, and he had willingly given up his fight and gone into the murky abyss. He felt naked, stripped, and mutilated. His soul was sundered, his spirit lost to a silent, wailing grief, his will broken by the deadliest of curses. For a long time did he drown in his sorrow, too stunned and pained to sob, too lost to escape the greedy hold of his misery. Time passed, and it rained and rained, drenching the prisoner of the gloomy woods. Drops like tears ran from Legolas' dull eyes.

When the woe no longer satiated the hunger of his heart, his mind burst in fury. From the stupor he snapped, and a twisted grunt fled from his ashen lips. The grunt grew to a chuckle. The chuckle became a mad laughter.  _This_  was his reward for being true to his family, to his promises!  _This_  was how fate repaid him for the agony he had endured! Legolas raised his insanity to the sky, the piercing, sad mirth breaking the burdensome silence. Rage was the only weapon afforded him, and he embraced it. He damned Saruman. He damned the Ring and the Fellowship he had so stupidly joined. He damned Boromir for selling his immortality in return for a moment of corrupted bliss. He damned Aragorn for his insipid weakness. He damned Gimli for rowing away at Amon Hen and condemning him to the Orc's whims. He damned the silly Hobbits. They should have kept to themselves and to their home. Had Frodo Baggins only never come to Rivendell! Had he never been sent as a messenger to Elrond's council! Had he never fought with his father!

_No! You cannot think this! Never regret!_

The madness became horridly disgusting, and he collapsed. If he allowed himself to embrace his rage, he would be no better than Saruman. If he lost his pride, he was truly a wretch. The air, once pierced by maniacal laughter, became wrought with heavy sobs. Legolas curled onto his side, tucking his body tightly onto itself, and cried. He cried long and hard, with such violent release that his sobs shook his heart and soul. His pain, wrath, and fear he vented in great waves. The shower of drops fell softly upon him. His father… his brothers… Mirkwood… he had lost them all!

What was he if not an Elf?

A great time passed before Legolas again was aware of anything around him. He did not want to be. He did not want to think. The pain of what had been done to him was unbearable. His entire being had been violated, his gentle light raped by the shadows, his heart ripped from him. How was he to face the world now? He was neither Elf nor man. He could see things with the eyes of neither. What could he do? He imagined his father's overwhelming anger, grief, and disappointment. He heard Vardaithil's denials. He understood Astaldogald's rage and knew Aratadarion's silent mourning. Aragorn's eyes he felt meeting his, offering strength and loving support. Arwen's arms he felt envelope him, her sweet scent filling his body with peace. Peace.  _Be calm. All is not yet lost. Have hope._

Legolas closed his eyes and struggled again to sit up. The pain was sharp and he whimpered, but he managed to right himself. Then he concentrated on breathing. The cool air was a soothing balm to his bleeding heart and strengthened his floundering morale. Yes, he had to have hope. Perhaps this was not permanent. Perhaps even the worst of curses could be undone. If he gave up his fight, Saruman would win. Saruman would break him. This brought him angry resilience. The wizard had left him alone to die. He would not let that happen!

He thought of pleasant things to combat the burning misery he found threatening his resolve. He recalled Mirkwood's great forests and the old tree that was companion to his soul. He concentrated on Arwen's smile and Aragorn's laughter. He heard Aratadarion's quiet songs on a cool summer's eve and Astaldogald's cunning retorts in a trite debate. He saw Vardaithil ride high upon his horse and his father regard him with proud eyes. There were Gimli's gruff and boisterous tales of Dwarven might and Merry and Pippin's mindless banter. He remembered Sam and Frodo, quiet but steadfast in their devotion to each other and to the quest they had assumed. In the midst of all this he knew himself to be. He could not let them go. He could not allow himself to be defeated!

With a renewed spirit, Legolas glanced around. This place was barren and dangerous. He did not know how close to Minas Morgul Saruman had deposited him, but if these sick woods were any indication, he was too near Cirith Ungol to be safe. He would have to find his way out of this place. Legolas again felt his anguish threaten. This was a daunting task, and he was injured. He did not know if his feet could carry him at all, let alone at any speed necessary to quickly deliver him from this evil land. How would he find his way through this maze of trunk and limb at any rate? Were his senses still sharp, were his heart still attuned to the song of the trees, he would have had no trouble finding his path. Now he had naught but his numbed and disoriented mind upon which to depend.

A logical voice calmed his riled nerves. If he lost his wits, he would surely die. He must take everything one step at a time.

Legolas glanced around the area quickly. There, not far from him and nestled against a tree trunk, was a rock about the size of his palm. The pain from his feet dissuaded him from even trying to stand, so he scrambled on his hands and knees to the rock. Once there, he picked up the stone, breathing heavily. It was flat and long. Gritting his teeth, he smashed the edge against the ground in hopes of producing a sharp point. Rock shards scattered each time the stone slammed down. After a moment, he examined it again and found, to his relief, that the force had molded the edge into a jagged surface. It was no knife, but it would do.

His fingers were slick with water and sweat, but he managed to grip the stone in his right palm. Then he sloppily began to saw at the coarse bindings around his wrists. It took a long time and he cut almost as much of his skin as he did the rope, but finally the stone sliced through. With a grunt of elation, he pulled hard enough to split the final threads, and his hands were free.

Legolas nearly sobbed in relief as he pushed the remains of the ropes from his wrists. Long, shaking fingers quickly worked to massage the abused skin. Slowly he felt the pain recede from his hands with a tingle as blood rushed anew to the extremities. He sat still, rubbing warmth into his fingers. This was but a small victory. Immediately his worries came again. He had no food or water. His clothes were hardly rags that clung to a starving body. His injuries were substantial. He was lost.  _He was lost._

"Stop it," he hissed angrily, wiping away the tears from his burning eyes. He was not a weakling. He was not helpless. Drawing together his strength and composure, he gripped the trunk and pulled himself up. The effort was painful and tiring, and his feet screamed in agony as his weight came upon them. Still, after a few rushed breaths, he was standing.

Winded, Legolas leaned tiredly into the tree. He felt dizzy and cold, and his empty stomach squeezed and shuddered inside him. The trunk was rough and coarse, and his fingers felt only this. The soft caress of the kindred spirit did not reach him. He tried to ignore this blaring dearth as he slowly took a step, gripping the trunk tightly for support. The pain was intense, but he refused to fall. His bloodied feet nearly toppled him, and he waited until the hurt became dull before taking another step.

It was slow and torturous, but progress nonetheless. The rain feel steadily, and Legolas made his way through the woods. The sun was hidden behind the thick rain clouds, obscured by the tempest of grays and lavenders, so it was of no use to him in deciding a direction. He thought the best course would be a westward one. If he could again reach the Anduin, he might travel south along it to the bridge road that, in times long past, had connected the powerful sister cities of Minas Tirith and Minas Morgul. From there he could cross the Great River and reach Gondor. He knew this to be a massive and perhaps idealistic undertaking. These woods were great and it would be difficult to keep a consistent heading. He cursed the dismal clouds and wished them away, longing to both feel the warmth of the sun on his abused skin and know from its path in the sky the direction he needed to take.

He stopped then, breathing heavily and worn from walking. Propping himself up against a tree, he turned and looked around him. Each path seemed the same. Each trunk was nondescript and unfamiliar. The tears threatened again, and he looked to the sky. How was he to find his way? In the near three millennia of his life, he had never been so lost and completely helpless. Legolas slumped down the trunk tiredly, collapsing to the ground. He shivered and buried his face in his hands. For a few minutes he struggled once more against his despair. When he regained his composure, he breathed slowly and allowed his reasoning to take over. Maybe it would be best to simply wait. If the storm passed, the sun or stars could show him the way. If he were to just choose a direction, he would surely confuse himself further and wandering blindly so close to Cirith Ungol was far too dangerous. Yes, he would wait until again the sun was unveiled.

Legolas suddenly felt very tired, and that tentative plan seemed good enough. He closed his eyes and felt all his energy suddenly disappear. The cool drops of the rain eased his troubled mind, and he remembered a song. It was a soft melody of spring drizzle upon new leaves. His mother had often sung it to him before she had passed away. After her death, Aratadarion had adopted the tale for his own. It was one the few songs his brother kept untouched; never had he adapted the quiet words or notes to his own liking. Their mother had been a magnificent creature of timeless beauty and simple wisdom. At that moment Legolas missed her dearly.

The raindrops became her voice. The cold air was her cool caress. Unwittingly, the exhausted Legolas tumbled into sleep.

Some time later a shrill howl pierced his dreams. Legolas gasped and sat up quickly, his eyes snapping open. The gray light of the day had been replaced with a deep, black night, and his eyes refused to adjust to the darkness. Frantically he glanced around, angered that he had slept so long and frustrated that his vision was as impaired as his heart by Saruman's defiling curse. Legolas' heart was racing, his bated breath forming rapid puffs before his lips. The woods again were quiet, eerie and still. Perhaps the cry had been but a nightmare. He allowed himself to relax his tense body.

Then a massive squeal shattered the silence, and Legolas' terror pulsed over him, alarm tightening his muscles and clenching his lungs. He did not need heightened senses or the cry of the trees to know something black and hideous was roaming the forests of Minas Morgul. The evil prickled his gooseflesh and sickened his stomach.

His panic soared, and he could sit still no longer. Legolas whimpered and braced his bare back against the rough trunk as he struggled to his feet. Through the shadows and mist came a chorus of shrieks and shouts and a rumble of horse feet. Legolas swallowed, struggling to catch his wind, his racing breath horribly too loud in the night. He pressed himself against the tree, somehow wishing to simply be absorbed into the protective bark or slide into the concealing night. But he could not, and by the sound of the thundering hooves, the demons were approaching.

He could not stay there. He had to run! His paralyzed horror snapped, and he sprung into motion. The first few steps were shaky, his frozen, abused feet stumbling over the uneven, hard terrain and nearly tipping his balance. He teetered but regained himself, and sprinted.

Tears of fear and agony streaked down his pale cheeks as he stumbled through the woods. The boom of his heart was deafening, but it could not drown out the howls of the monsters in the night. His terror pushed his body beyond its limits, and though the pain shot up from his heel to his knee with every heavy step and his breath burned in his throat, he could not slow down. Vaguely he felt so strange, as though he was running with a body slower than his mind, trapped inside a form that was lethargic and heavy. But that was but a passing whim; all around him came the sounds of the black riders, and he had to escape.

Ahead was a great, wide trunk, and Legolas felt his strength waver. He fell against the tree heavily, choking on his breath. Shivering in fright, he hugged his slender figure to the trunk and swallowed his roaring heart. Straining his ears, he listened for the sounds of the shades chasing him.

Silence.

An ear-piercing screech shattered the quiet, and Legolas squeezed shut his eyes in terror. Cold chills coursed over his quivering form, and tighter he pressed himself to the body of the tree. It sounded so close, perhaps on the other side of the trunk, but he could not be sure, and the noise seemed to come from everywhere at once. His mind was jumbled and each shadow looked to be a suspicious apparition. There was a snort and the thud of feet against the ground. He held his breath.

Suddenly a hand slapped over his mouth. Legolas jerked and gasped when a restraining arm shot across his chest, holding him tightly to the tree. He looked around frantically as he was held still and then groaned. The palm pressed firmer over his lips. "Be still!" came a harsh hiss. He had no choice but to obey, and after his eyes detected before him the Nazgûl.

The black rider was a bit hunched on its mount. The massive steed stood still, grunting and pawing the ground. Jets of vapor shot from the beast's flaring nostrils. In the shroud of shadow the Nazgûl sat, exuding a menace that chilled Legolas. Against the tree he watched with wide eyes, praying that the Ringwraith would not see him as he cowered barely ten feet ahead of it. Time seemed to stand still as the rider idly lingered in the night. Finally, whatever had attracted it no longer held its interest. There was another shrill call resounding through the woods, and, with a snort and whinny, the Nazgûl rode off into the shadows.

Legolas released a harsh breath and sagged against the tree in weakening relief. For a moment, he could not think, so utterly exhausted from the run and from the receding terror. Then anger burned his heart, and he pulled free from the grips sharply. He ripped around the trunk to look behind him. He gasped.

He was staring into the dark eyes of Boromir.

* * *

The night was heavy and cold. Wispy clouds caressed the pale moon and the twinkling stars, and mist formed from the heavy rains and dropping temperatures hugged the earth. Silence ruled the night; neither animal nor wind had the gall to speak, for the blackness of the sky was so intense and the spirit of the land that evening was undeniably grave. The air was crisp and chilling, tight between the trees. It mirrored the tension that lay over the small camp.

Boromir found that he could not bring himself to meet Legolas' gaze. They had hardly shared a word since he had come upon the other in the path of the dark rider. He had known the Nazgûl to be roaming these woods, set forth from their black fort of Cirith Ungol on what the warrior could only assume was a patrol. For days he had searched for his lost comrade in the maze of the forest, refusing to rest as he followed a path marked by bent twigs and disturbed leaves. Fear and concern had driven him when his endurance had begun to dwindle. The cold memories of what the twins of Thranduil had told him about the crying trees and the silence of their youngest sibling through their bond burned fear into his mind and panic into his stomach. Every night the cry of the Nazgûl had grown louder, and Boromir had begun to doubt. This forest was thick and without obvious trails. He had struggled to renounce all the pessimism of Aratadarion and Astaldogald, a promise made in dream giving him strength. He could not fail in this task, for he knew if he did not succeed, redemption would never come to him. As days passed with no sign of what he sought, his hopes had begun to fade.

He had nearly collapsed in relief when finally he spotted a blond figure huddled fearfully against a tree. The Nazgûl surely would have found and killed Legolas had Boromir not interfered. He had grabbed the stunned archer by the arm and dragged him away before the Ringwraiths could return, running back in the direction he had come. When they had come upon this grove, Legolas had ripped from him and backed away, absolute horror, confusion, and fury painted on his face. Boromir had watched numbly, wanting to say anything to assuage his guilt, as the other had stumbled to the opposite end of the tiny glade. They had not spoken once.

The arms of the clouds released the mournful moon from their embrace, and the pale light spread upon them. Boromir gained courage enough finally to look up. When now his eyes met Legolas', he could not look away. The creature before him bore little resemblance to the proud, vibrant Elf he had once known. He wore the scars from his imprisonment plainly. Legolas was gaunt and pale. The long blond tresses usually pristine and soft were ragged with tangles and dirt. His tunic was missing, and his chest was a mottled collection of red welts and bruises. His ribs seemed visible under an emaciated layer of skin. What remained of his leggings barely clung to a thin body. Boromir winced at the sight of his feet; they were torn and swollen and caked in mud and blood.

Yet these were but physical things. As the man looked into the other's eyes, he saw a nightmare of betrayal and terror, of the ultimate violation. The deep blue orbs that so often seemed to glow of their own accord seemed utterly dull and vacant. The light of his skin was gone, replaced by a heavy shadow that crushed Legolas' spirit almost visibly. The peaceful, beautiful aura that he had radiated so luminously in the past was gone, and Boromir nearly blanched. The being before him, huddled and shivering in the moonlight, was a mere shade of what he had been.

For a long time Boromir could not speak. He could not think. Clearly something depraved and wicked had been done to Legolas. He suspected that Saruman had been the one to commit the heinous crime. This implied a horrible conclusion that smashed his valor and threatened his sanity: whatever had been done to Legolas, whatever foul desecration that had been strong enough to sever him from his brothers and reduce him as such, had been the indirect making of his own weakness and greed.

His curiosity and shock would not abate. "What did he do to you?" he asked quietly.

Legolas' face grew hard. He did not answer, looking away in obvious pain and disgust. Boromir's heart nearly broke. His disgrace grew to a scream, and he could no longer sit still and wallow in his anguish. He approached Legolas, never breaking eye contact with the other as if to offer his good intentions. But Legolas did not accept the unspoken promise and scrambled away from him weakly. "Stay away from me, Boromir," he snapped coldly.

Boromir felt the blood drain from his cheeks and raised his hands, stilling his advance. "I only wish to help you, Legolas," assured the man quietly. He was unable to completely hide the yearning from his voice.

Those empty eyes flashed in fear and anger. "I neither want nor need your help!" Legolas hissed. Thin arms tucked bruised knees tightly to a bare chest.

The words hurt, but Boromir would not so simply be dissuaded. He had not expected this to be easy. Since leaving the other Elves, he had mulled over in his afflicted mind how he might behave when he finally again encountered the one he had betrayed. Words of apology and actions of rescue had brightened his heart and provided hope in a tempest of guilt, sorrow, and anger. He felt if he could just again win Legolas' trust, he might have a chance at redeeming his lost honor. "Please, Legolas," he began softly, forcing his gaze to be strong and comforting, "you are hurt. Let me tend to your wounds."

"You cannot now care where before you cast me aside! Tell me, Boromir, to what gain do you now manipulate me? Are you truly rid of the Ring's call? I will not so easily allow you to regain my favor!" His eyes burned and the nightmare devoured them. "You left me to his tortures, Boromir. You left me to his insanity! The madness of your pathetic Ring… I saw it in your eyes, and I saw it in his. I suffered for your weakness! I suffered for your mistake! You cannot now ask me to forgive when it is all too sick and painful to forget!" Legolas gave a twisted laugh tinged with absolute despair and agony. Boromir winced. Vindictive hurt scarred the once quiet being's voice in a way that stabbed sadness and guilt into his heart. "You cannot face me now and pretend that it was not you who made possible this torture! Look at me!" The man wanted to avert his eyes, but he found he simply could not. Legolas' face fractured in rage and grief. "Look at what I am! Look at what I have become!"

"You are very ill, Legolas," Boromir whispered feebly, feeling hot tears sting his eyes.

Legolas shook his head. "This is no passing illness, Boromir! This is no simple disease! I am cursed! He laid upon me a black magic to strangle my light and breathe darkness into my heart… He destroyed me! I am an Elf no more!"

Shock coursed over Boromir. The man felt his jaw fall limply open, but he could not speak any words. He wanted to deny. He wanted to ignore. But he understood then what the sad truth was and he could not for all his want cast it aside. In all of its terrible implications it loomed, threatening ultimate despair. It stared at him with fiery hunger, sundering his pride and his strength. "How can that be?" he asked dully. The question sounded stupid and lame, but he had neither the strength nor the time to amend it.

There came a weak moan of torment. It took Boromir a moment to realize that Legolas was weeping. The man felt a pain like none he had experienced before. He had been afraid that facing Legolas would bring forth in him a guilt and hurt like none other, for the truth was often undeniable and ugly. But he had not imagined something so vulgar or cruel could be possible. "I never lost my hope," said Legolas into his hands. The muffled tone was drenched in misery. "He told me he would break me. He promised that I would fall. I held tight to my will. But it was for naught. It was all for naught! His last wound was the most damning!"

Boromir could bear the other's pain no longer. He crawled forward gently. "Legolas-"

"No!" howled Legolas. He was trembling as he skittered away. "Keep your pity! I want none of it!"

"I do not offer pity," declared Boromir firmly. "I give to you my aid. I cannot find words enough to apologize for the great wrong I have done to you. I do not expect your forgiveness. I wish only to ease your pain and make right again the way of things!" He softened his voice. "Please, Legolas. Let me help you."

The tense silence returned. Boromir forced himself to maintain his gaze upon Legolas, and he saw a great many emotions swirling in the other's eyes. Pain. Fear. Hopelessness. Loneliness. The man's heart bled for him. Would perhaps now Legolas let down his defenses for the sake of his heart? Could they now start to heal? Would this small token of peace be enough to begin to atone? Boromir felt his hopes teeter as he waited to be accepted or rejected, and though the uncertain quiet was torturous, it was not his to break. He had offered his help. It was up to Legolas to make this choice.

After what seemed to be forever to Boromir, the hard visage of Legolas' face slipped away, and he closed his eyes and nodded. Relief washed over the man, colder than the chill of the night, and he thanked whatever fates may be for this chance.

Gently he moved closer, his fingers suddenly nervous and shaking as he pulled from his pack a small satchel of bandages and herbs the twins of Mirkwood had given him upon leaving Isengard. Powerful elation threatened his grave face with a smile, but he pushed it down as he sat before Legolas. The sight of the once powerful archer so weak and ill disturbed him greatly. Though it was clear many wounds ailed him, Boromir supposed the sad state of Legolas' feet was the most serious and discomforting. The soft skin on the bottom was ripped to the bone, a mess of blood and mud coating thickly upon the cuts and gashes. He winced as he inspected the injury. Some stones had dug into the flesh and remained lodged inside by the sticky, drying blood. It was a wonder that Legolas had managed to walk upon them at all, for the wounds looked days old and inflamed. It pained Boromir that the once swift feet of the agile archer that had so many times in the past ran in the wind and danced gracefully in battle might never again do such.

He took Legolas' left foot between his hands. The other jerked and gasped. Boromir glanced up at his face. Sweat was beading upon Legolas' brow and tears were filling his eyes. "Lay still," he said softly. "I will be as quick as possible."

Legolas regarded him suspiciously a moment more before the pain obviously became too much and he succumbed to the needs of his body. He closed his eyes as the man went about cleaning the injuries. Boromir poured water from a flask to a bit of ripped cloth to dampen it before tenderly wiping away the grime and blood. He worked quickly to minimize the amount of pain in removing the afflicting pebbles and dirt from the wounds. He tore herbs apart so that their soothing juices were free, and then he applied them carefully to the broken skin. He inspected his work with a bit of satisfaction when he was done. He was no healer, but the wounds looked cleaner and he hoped the medicine would at least take the edge off of the pain. Boromir subsequently set about gently wrapping the foot in clean linens. When he finished with the left, he began the same process on the right. Once or twice, he glanced up as he worked. Legolas bit his lip in obvious hurt, but he refused to cry or show his weakness. The man marveled at his pride and strength. Despite all that had been done to him, Legolas was as stoic as ever.

After he had completed caring for the feet, he sighed. These were dangerous injuries indeed, for they were extremely debilitating, and further use would only aggravate the wounds. He doubted anything he might do could heal them. Boromir felt his spirit strain in worry. He would have to carry Legolas; there was simply no other choice. To let him walk on those feet would not only slow them both but make worse an already serious situation, for the Nazgûl were prowling Minas Morgul, and they could not afford to linger. He doubted Legolas would easily submit to such treatment. Come morning, Boromir would make it clear that there was no other way.

The man's mind raced. He did not wish to wait for sunrise to move again, but the night was very black and these woods were a dense maze of trees. He doubted he could find his way to the Anduin in this smothering blanket of darkness. As much as he disliked the thought, staying in the grove until dawn was the best option.

Legolas was shivering with violent intensity, drawing Boromir's attention. They could not dare to light a fire for surely it would attract the attention of the dark eyes of this place and bring swiftly upon them the demons of Cirith Ungol. It gave Boromir much chagrin. Legolas would have greatly benefited from the warmth. The man unclasped his own Elven cloak that was so long ago given to him by the Elves of Lórien. This he attempted to wrap around the others shoulders.

A hand shot up and snatched tightly his tunic, stunning him. Delirious blue eyes burned with delirium. "You do not understand," Legolas hissed, his breath a harsh rasp. "I failed!"

Boromir winced but forced himself to be calm. "You shake with chills. Take this for warmth."

"I deserve nothing!" came the furious reply. A deep, shaking cough followed. Legolas writhed against unseen demons fashioned from fever and fear. "I am a wretch of the shadow. I deserve no warmth!"

Boromir grasped the thin, bloody hand tightly. "Legolas, be still! You are wrought with fever. Do not sink into your nightmares!"

His heart ached at the choked sob that answered him. "I failed them. I failed Sam and Frodo. I failed Aragorn and Arwen and Lord Elrond! I failed my father!" Legolas' voice trailed off as another brutal paroxysm of coughing struck him, and his huddled form shook. Boromir watched helplessly, hating himself for bringing such destruction upon his friend. "I was supposed to protect them… But I failed, and now all will come to horrible ruin! Ai, Elbereth, save them if you will not me!"

Boromir shook his head. "Legolas, of what do you speak?"

A moment tired lucidity passed in the bright eyes. "Would you help me, Boromir?" Legolas whispered, his struggles waning. The man felt cold and wrong hearing these words and knowing the sad irony laced into them. "Would you succeed where I could not? Can you protect them?"

Then a strange, numbing peace came over Boromir as he met Legolas' troubled, feverish gaze. "I would do my best," he swore in a whisper, his voice shaking.

Legolas grabbed his tunic with exhausted fervor. "Saruman… he discovered that Sam has the Ring."

Shock clawed its way painfully through Boromir. In its wake was terror and worry. If Saruman had uncovered the truth, then it would only be a matter of time. The hateful Eye would find Sam and thus the Ring, and Sauron would shortly after reclaim his prize and kill the one that sought to destroy it. Oh, for the weight of this knowledge! Poor Sam would not have the strength to contend with the will of Sauron! Numbly, Boromir murmured, "How could he know such?" Surely Legolas had not faltered!

Legolas moaned, "It was a trick of the darkest magic. In his  _palantír_  a vision came to him of Sam caught in the glare of the Eye. This he showed to me in gloating. I wanted to help Sam, but I could not! And when I struggled in these final moments, he laid upon me this curse." He gave a cough twisted with tears. "If the Eye has seen him, it will only be a matter of time." The fingers grasping his clothing became desperate. "I do not want to trust you, Boromir, but there is no other choice. You and I… we are alike in many ways." The words stunned the man, but Legolas spoke in a clear voice wrought with the reasoning of misery. "Both of us have been stained by the shadow."

"Legolas, please rest."

"I will not!" Legolas shouted.

"You know not what you speak!" retorted Boromir in hot anger and shame. Tears fled his eyes. He viciously wiped them away. "You are nothing like me! You are valiant and wise! You are fair and handsome! You know of so many things and you comfort so many hearts! Ai, if only I could share with you the brotherly peace that you so readily give Aragorn… Do not further dishonor yourself with such a gross comparison! Save your soul from guilt, Legolas. You have done no wrong!" His voice turned dark and low in seething remorse. How could Legolas be so selfless? "You lessen my crimes by equating them to yours."

"Do you seek redemption, Boromir?" the other asked, his tone taut. Sweat glistened on his face almost ethereally in the moonlight. "Do you seek to absolve your heart?"

The man lowered his eyes. "Of course I do. I am wrought by guilt and duty. It was these feelings that pushed me to take the Ring in the beginning. They will drive me to repair what I have broken." He suddenly began to understand. His eyes widened. "You would have me stop Saruman?"

"I would have you follow your heart," replied Legolas softly. "It holds the greatest sway over your mind. Be it evil, you will do evil, and I cannot change that. It is the same for us all. You cannot absolve yourself. The weight of what we are and what we have done is to each of us our own curse."

"Then I will go," said Boromir softly and decisively. The hands in his tunic loosened their grasp. "I will go to Cirith Ungol. I will face Saruman and rid him of his means to track Sam and the Ring. I will steal this  _palantír_  from evil. And when I have, I will return and take you home."

Legolas said nothing, but there was much spoken by his eyes. The blue, glassy orbs were torn by fever and pain, by loss and betrayal, by the need for relief and the want to again have hope. Unvoiced was his ultimatum, but Boromir knew it clear enough. In the silence of his heart, he heard the words.  _If you make right what you have wronged, if you again become a protector, I will trust you._ Legolas licked dry lips and leaned back tiredly. Clear tears seeped from closed eyelids. "Saruman must be stopped." Then he was quiet.

Boromir watched the other slip into a feverish trance. Legolas' eyes squeezed shut and he curled onto his side, weeping and coughing, shaking with the cold weight of the truth. For a moment the man could do nothing but crouch beside him, feeling wretched but now firm in purpose. He must do this. He must get this  _palantír_  from Saruman and prevent the deranged wizard from using it to see Sam. This would now be his burden. The remnants of the dream so many nights past became cohesive and clear. It chilled him, and in that the slow fire of the Ring piqued inside him to ward away the cold. The desire was growing again. Saruman could see Sam. Saruman could find the Ring. With the  _palantír_ , whatever it may be, he might find it as well!

Boromir shuddered and strangled those thoughts. He looked down at Legolas. The suffering creature whimpered quietly, and Boromir knew silently his pain and fear. Pain of what had been done to him. Fear that it could never be undone. The man tasted his tears as he laid upon the thin body his woolen cloak. Legolas had had no reason to offer him this chance, but he had done so all the same. The purest heart could not be defiled by even the darkest curse. Boromir would not make a mockery of his hope with failure!

He understood the choice he would face. He knew now the road to redemption.

His shame and guilt were a thick grime on his soul, covering it as heavily as night did the woods. He sighed, watching the plume of his breath form quickly before it faded into the shadows as though a ghost or spirit that was never meant to be. Merely a phantom in the night. Maybe, in a way, he was the same.

"I will not fail you, Legolas," he assured softly, laying his hand firmly upon the other's shoulder. Legolas cringed and flinched unconsciously, but Boromir did not allow himself to feel the pain. "I swear to you I will not."

With that, he stood. He was not sure he knew the way and the moon was hidden again, but he was certain he would find his path. Mistakes were made. Fates became twisted and intertwined in ways unseen. Something beyond Legolas and himself and all they had shared had granted him this opportunity to correct the future. Something would make use of his suffering to change the course of life. And through that perhaps there could be absolution.

So he ran through the night, his face hard and his heart knotted in determination. Destiny, he was sure, would deliver him to salvation.


	17. The Curse of Mortality

Lórien was quiet this evening. The sky was crisp and clear, the blanket of stars bright and twinkling. To any mortal it would seem a simple night, perhaps a bit chilly, but otherwise serene and unremarkable. For the Galadhrim, the dark was wrought with tension and anxiety. A foul foreboding permeated the woods and the trees radiated it like water did sunlight. It was from the east, and it reeked of Mordor. With its painful presence, the Golden Wood and all of its inhabitants were unusually nervous. Peace would not easily come to it.

Arwen sighed softly and drew her shawl tighter about her shoulders. A cold breeze swept by her, raking icy fingers through her abundant brown hair, and she shuddered. It was more than just the chilly air that disturbed her; the wind spoke of distant turmoil, of trouble growing and anguish unending. It tormented her, stealing her composure and threatening clear eyes with tears. She stood strong against the wind, her gaze directed to the sky. The stars looked upon her affectionately, offering a silent solace, and she quietly requested answers of them. What did they know? Had they seen the source of the pain that had relentlessly troubled her? Did they, in their ancient wisdom as eternal sentinels, understand that which plagued her?

Eärendil sparkled sympathetically against the black velvet of the night sky. Arwen released a slow breath, and subconsciously her fingers found their way to the base of her neck, where for many years her Evenstar necklace had rested. Its absence was at once a comfort and a curse. So many nights prior, before the Nine Walkers had set forth from Rivendell, she had offered the jewel to Aragorn as a token of her love, as a symbol of her immortal gift to him. He had been reluctant to accept such a vow, and she smiled in the memory. He appeared the valiant, strong man, but she knew his heart in ways he kept hidden. His power and security were not infallible, and though they awed her, she knew his limits. Aragorn had always placed friendship and love above duty; it was due to his companionship with the House of Elrond that he had for so long forsaken his birthright. Only she knew his fears. Only she understood his heart, nestled beneath so many titles and masks. For that privilege, she had forfeited her immortality. It had never been a decision for her, really. She loved him so deeply, so completely, that in his mortal death he would break her heart and sunder her will to live onward in his shadow. Binding herself to him had not been so much a sacrifice as it had been a confirmation of her devotion to him.

The cold wind came again, and Arwen lowered her gaze. She had somehow hoped the necklace might protect him or offer him hope in bleak places. The quest to destroy the One Ring would not be an easy one, she had known, but she had done nothing to stop Aragorn from going. He had known his duties and held strong to his valor. She could not fault him for that. She had not been happy at his departure, but it was not hers to question him. Some obligations went above love and friendship, even for Aragorn. The thought seemed familiar and distinctly belonged to another, and again a quiet conversation held atop a terrace of Rivendell returned to her. She had sought Legolas' company after her father's council had adjourned and found him star-gazing at the balcony, leaning upon the railing almost childishly. She had seen him assume this innocent pose so many times in the past. For many years they had been each other's confidants, bound by a common plight: affection for Aragorn. She knew Legolas' friendship with Aragorn had caused him much strife with his brothers and father. Never had she much cared for the royal family of Mirkwood, for though they were powerful and loyal, they were rather arrogant and bigoted. Legolas was, much to her gratitude, something quite different, and often he had come to Rivendell to, as he claimed, enjoy her company and spar with Aragorn and her brothers. She knew the deeper reason beneath his frequenting of their home, though he never revealed it. It was based directly upon the distance he felt from his own family and the acceptance he found in hers.

Upon that balcony they had shared a brief but poignant conversation. She had not wanted him as well to partake on such a dangerous journey. Though she had not said as much, he had understood her unspoken fears. And as he so often had in the past, he was the one that had eased her heart. Without word or tear, he had known what she was asking of him. His hands were firm upon her shoulders and his eyes were bright and deep as he had held her gaze and spoken softly.  _"I promise you, Arwen. I will not let Aragorn fall. He is my brother as he is your lover, and I would not allow any fate to destroy such a coveted bond."_

 _"And yourself, my dear prince?"_  she had questioned quietly.

He had laughed tenderly, but she had heard the grave tone betraying its assurances.  _"You need not worry about me, my Lady. I know your concern for Aragorn will consume your heart enough no matter what I say to you, so spare yourself from more toil over me!"_  His strong, slender hands had risen to cup her face.  _"I will come home, Arwen, and I swear to you that I will bring home with me Aragorn. Then all will be the same. No amount of distance or danger can sever the ties between us."_  She had nodded slowly, feeling absolved in his words, finding strength to let go in his powerful eyes. He had grinned slowly. Then he had pressed his lips gently upon her forehead, and she had wrapped her arms around his lean form. Their embrace had been quick but telling, and she clung to her friend, his familiar scent of rain and the woods filling her like the sun's warmth with each breath. Only a moment later he quietly bade her a good night and departed the balcony.

Arwen's eyes narrowed as she now stood, watching the massive trees stand effortlessly in the face of time and peril. Inside her heart raged in the anguish that her impassive and pale face did not show. So many nights had passed since the Fellowship had left Rivendell. As days stretched to weeks, she had grown weary of her persistent worries, but no amount of logic or reason could vanquish them. She knew of Aragorn's endurance and the stamina of his heart. She knew of Legolas' skill with the bow and prowess as a fighter. She knew of Mithrandir's timeless power and wisdom. Surely, the others as well had their talents and strengths, and together the nine would not falter. Neither of her beloved companions could come to ruin in the company of such fine people. Yet this thought grew weaker as time went on, and, come a few weeks past, she had begun to fret with such urgency and tenacity that sleep slowly became impossible and all joy fled from the violent breaking of her heart. Something horrible had happened. She knew not what it was or what it meant, only that great anguish had come to Aragorn. It was a constant whisper inside her, plaguing her peace and bringing warning to her mind. When the soft murmur had risen to a maddening song, she had sought her father's counsel. Though Elrond as well seemed perturbed by the aura of darkness that was permeating all Middle Earth, he had simply offered her comfort and empty assurances. He had reminded her of the simple but undeniable fact that they knew nothing for certain, and there was little they could do. With Aragorn's amazing skills as a ranger and Gandalf's powerful mind at their disposal, the Fellowship would leave no trail. They could not follow. Elrond's words, though meant to be solace, only heightened her dismay. Arwen felt with each day spent in Rivendell her lover's strength fading.

A few weeks passed, and a strange messenger clad in the colors of Lórien arrived upon a winded horse. The cautious song became a blaring chorus of nightmares. The Elf had called himself Orophin, and he had brought with him words of warning from the Lady Galadriel. Elrond had received them with some distress, though on his peaceful, firm face only the smallest of fears registered. He had questioned the young Elf from Lórien diligently on what the Lady had revealed to him, but Orophin knew little more than what he had been told to say, leaving Elrond in a shadow of frustrated ignorance. Orophin had only instructed him in strengthening his borders, for the threat of men had grown great and imminent. Riders had immediately been dispatched to Mirkwood to summon King Thranduil so that Elrond might confer with him on an appropriate course of action. Arwen had been present when the mighty Thranduil had arrived in Rivendell, and upon seeing his weathered and wearied face, she knew that something far worse than anything she had previously imagined had come to her friends. In the dark eyes of Thranduil lingered terror and exhaustion, speaking of the king's distress where his lips would not. She had not been privy to the hurried conversation between the two lords, knowing only that another messenger from Lórien had come to Mirkwood requesting that aid be sent south to Gondor. When her father again had emerged from his chamber, his face had been pale and troubled, and he quickly and cordially bade the rushed king of Mirkwood a farewell. From thence the Lord of Rivendell had called together a private meeting of his most trusted advisors and sons. Glorfindel, the mighty Elf lord who had for centuries been the vassal of her father and the protector of his children, had insisted that she take rest and not trouble herself with the matters of the council. But she had not been deterred. The gathering had been less of a forum and more a series of orders from her father. Elrond had decided to ride south to Lórien; only from Galadriel herself could this matter be elucidated. In his place he would leaves his sons, Elrohir and Elladan, to rule Rivendell and manage their defense should this prophesized attack occur. Her brothers seemed a bit frightened of such a daunting task, but they were steadfast in their duty to their father and promised they would protect the city of the Elves in Elrond's absence. King Thranduil, according to Elrond, would immediately dispatch his eldest son with the bulk of Mirkwood's army south to Lórien, to protect it as it hardly had the resources left to defend itself. As her father had explained this, Arwen had finally understood. She knew little of the workings of the court of Mirkwood, but Thranduil's eldest son, Vardaithil, was the crown prince; it was unwise to send the heir destined to inherit the throne in a dangerous situation. Surely he would have done well to lay that task upon his middle children, the twin brothers. It made a sick, frightening ounce of sense. The pain on Thranduil's face, the terror in his eyes… he had already sent his other children south. Something horrible had happened to Legolas.

There had been no doubt in her mind. She had to accompany her father on his journey. If her dearest friends were in peril, it was her place to do what she could to help. Unspoken but pounding in its persistence was now a growing terror for Aragorn. If Legolas was in trouble, what had become of her love? Her father had refused, Glorfindel had pleaded, and her brothers had argued. She knew why they so adamantly wished for her to remain in the safety of Rivendell. Since binding herself to Aragorn and denying her immortality, their worry for her well being had become an ever-present concern that directed all their actions and thoughts regarding her. They meant well, she knew, but she was no child, and the choice had been hers. This she had explained to her father, and after a tense, painful debate, Elrond had finally relented.

The trek had been long and arduous. She knew that they had made amazing time, pressing onward tirelessly and resting rarely, urgent in their worry. Yet the days spent traveling were torturous, and her heart had bled for Legolas and Aragorn. The hunger of her worry would not be satiated by any logical assurances; she knew she would not again find peace until she saw them both alive and well. Under Orophin's direction they had rode hard, flying south to the gap of Rohan. It was judged to be a risk worth taking to travel so close to Isengard, and they had ventured through the pass thankfully without issue. Only a few hours before the fall of this night had they come to Lórien.

"My Lady." Arwen turned quickly at the voice. Behind her, standing tall and regal, was Glorfindel. He was an impressive Elf with a firm, long face that held chiseled features and deep, wise eyes. Long blond hair was pulled back in thin braids. The breeze brushed through it, ruffling it like yellow grass on a wide plain. "They are about to begin. Thranduil's forces have arrived."

She offered her protector a small smile. "Thank you, Glorfindel." Her voice betrayed her worry and trepidation, and she chastised herself for her weakness. Though her soul was riled with nervousness, she wished not to be so blatant about it.

Glorfindel afforded her an understanding look. "You need not be so reserved, Arwen," he reminded her gently. He offered her a long arm clad in a gray tunic. She took it gratefully. "I know you too well, my little star."

She chuckled good-naturedly, but the gesture seemed weak and contrived. "I do not doubt," she said, "but I seek not to burden you with my troubles. The plight of my heart is not yours to bear."

They walked in silence after that. She was grateful for his companionship; he had always been a silent mentor that was graced in ways of magic and swordplay. From him she had learned much in the ways of war and in the ways of thought. Slow to anger and judge, he was an ideal brother, offering support and guidance when her father could not. Never had Glorfindel's loyalty wavered. Though with him she did not share such a bond as she did with Legolas, he had never asked much of her in terms of her intimacy, satisfied with her silent trust and sisterly affection.

Ahead was Caras Galadhon. It was a magnificent place, and she had seen it many times before, for it was here that her mother, Celebrían, had been borne to Celeborn and Galadriel. Her kin in Lórien had remained a strong ally to the House of Elrond. Since her mother had left for the Undying Lands, she had less often come the glorious Golden Wood, finding more comfort and a greater sense of peace among the forests of Rivendell. Upon meeting Aragorn, she had ceased her visits completely, though not due to any sensation of reproach. She had simply felt more at home in Rivendell, where her brothers still made mischief upon Aragorn, where Legolas was merely a few days away, where Glorfindel laughed and teased, where her father's wisdom was the law of the land. She felt no anxiety in again being among the Lórien Elves; they were a kind, if not a bit shrewd and conceited, folk. She hoped vehemently that Galadriel might offer some information to ease her suffering heart.

Another council was about to convene. Another meeting to discuss the fate of Middle Earth. She wondered what now would shape it.

After ascending a great winding staircase, Glorfindel led her to a chamber. It was open and wide, with only old trunks for walls and the starry night as the ceiling. Arwen saw many faces assembled around a circular table. The trees above whispered anxiously, filling the void of silence in the room. She quickly glanced about the group, recognizing many, failing to find familiarity in some. Then she lowered her eyes. At the opposite side of the table Celeborn was quietly speaking to a tall, brunette Elf garbed in the royal colors of Mirkwood. She vaguely knew him to be Vardaithil, Thranduil's oldest son. Only once before had she seen him. He shared little with Legolas aside from a firm jaw and piercing eyes. His face and hair were darker, and he was quite a bit taller than his youngest brother. The strong face seemed troubled and stiff, the eyes tense and guarded. She wondered momentarily as Glorfindel led her to her seat what they might be speaking about, but chastised herself silently. It was not her business.

Gracefully she took her position beside her father, laying her hand briefly over his. Elrond turned slowly to look upon her. Her father was truly a powerful creature. She had always admired his strong stature and ageless eyes. He knew much but his countenance was peaceful and respectful; never did he use his knowledge to belittle or besmirch. It was his understanding that had allowed Aragorn to live in his house during the ranger's self-inflicted exile. Elrond was nothing else if not compassionate, and he rarely sought to judge based on preconceptions. As wise as he was powerful, her father had seen and done much for the benefit of Middle Earth. Few could deny his great heart.

Elrond squeezed her fingers gently before offering her a reassuring, curt nod. Then she respectfully dropped her hands into her lap. Glorfindel sat beside her, his eyes narrowed and analytical as he scanned the room. Around the table were seated many Elves, some of Lórien, some of Mirkwood. On Elrond's other side she spotted Orophin. Beside him rested another young Elf of similar looks. Her attention was then drawn by Vardaithil as the crown prince sat gracefully amidst the convoy from Mirkwood. She regarded him thoughtfully a moment, seeking to learn about him from his mannerism or his expressions, but he was still, his eyes dark and clouded. His form seemed erect with anger. This served to only further disrupt Arwen's calm.

A hush came to the meeting chamber, and Arwen was torn from her thoughts. From the doors behind them descended Galadriel, and all rose in respect. The Lady of the Golden Wood was as beautiful as Arwen remembered. She wore a long gown of sheer white that shimmered when she elegantly stepped. It flowed as flawlessly as her body as she approached. Her ageless face was calm and impassive, pale and comforting, and her eyes seemed to envelope the room and all who resided within it in one sweeping glance. She reached her own chair, and Celeborn silently helped his wife sit. When he was sure she was comfortable, he returned to his former position, and those in attendance sat as well. The meeting began.

"We have come here today to discuss the continuing threat against Middle Earth," Celeborn began firmly. His voice was level, betraying no emotion. "Much has happened since messengers were sent north. I fear we have little time."

Elrond nodded gravely, his expression questioning. "What has become of the One Ring?" he asked simply. "Has the Fellowship truly failed?"

Arwen cringed. She felt tears burning in her eyes, so she bowed her head to hide them. After a moment, Galadriel spoke. "The Fellowship has fallen. Mithrandir is in shadow." A quiet murmur resounded through the delegation from Mirkwood. Vardaithil's face grew tense with worry. "The man from Gondor fell to the Ring's call at Amon Hen and brought destruction to the Nine Walkers. I know little more than this."

"The man from Gondor?" Vardaithil repeated. His tone was seething in scantily concealed anger. "He is responsible?"

The inquiry was not answered. Galadriel seemed unfazed by the crown prince's accusation. "I sent forth an aid to what remained of the Fellowship. He was to seek out the son of Arathorn and direct him in obtaining the allegiance of Gondor."

"What future did the Lady see to require such an action?" asked Elrond.

Galadriel lowered her eyes. For a moment, she did not speak. The tension in the room grew tight and trying, and Arwen found her heart pounding in anticipation. Finally, Galadriel responded. "The Ring fell into obscurity. There was great threat to our kind. Men would turn upon us in a last battle and bring ruin to Mirkwood and Rivendell. To Lórien, itself." Another gasp resounded in the hall. "Sauron repaid the men in kind for their betrayal of the Last Alliance. They were slaughtered at the hands of a legion of demons. This was the vision I once had."

"Once had?" Vardaithil said. "You mean to say it exists no longer?"

"The future has changed." Galadriel looked blankly ahead. She seemed vaguely troubled. Arwen wondered what the powerful Elf knew, what her own ring told her. Though she was kin to Galadriel, she understood very little of her and her ways. "What once was has now been altered, and we walk a different path. Whether it is better or worse, I know not."

"And the nature of this new road?" asked one of the Elves of Mirkwood.

The Lady of the Golden Wood spoke clearly, her voice more a melody than simple words. It seemed misplaced, given the content of her statements. "The threat of men will abate. I cannot say whether or not the heir of Isildur has yet taken his place as their king, but when the final battle is upon us, their allegiance will not waver."

Elrond smiled weakly. Arwen felt Glorfindel release a slow breath in relief. Yet this was not all Galadriel wished to reveal. "Yet, where this threat has disappeared, another has risen in its place. The Eye has shown me much. It has again seen the Ring."

"Where?" asked Elrond urgently.

Her voice was deceptively calm. "I do not know. Frodo Baggins no longer carries it. I believe one of the other Halfings took the Ring to Mordor."

Glorfindel leaned back in his seat, his expression pensive. "Then it is beyond our reach," he surmised simply.

"It is."

Vardaithil's tone was hot with anger and much emotion. Arwen nearly flinched. "Why then did you request the aid of my father's kingdom? If there is naught we can do to help the one that bears the Ring, we but waste our time in this council!"

"Keep your peace, son of Thranduil," chastised Celeborn gently. "Your grief is great, but let it not control your tongue."

"I speak not from grief but from duty. I have led my father's army south to Lórien when it should be guarding our own borders. The shadows of Dol Guldur again rouse, my lords, and without Mirkwood's primary forces, we are at a serious disadvantage," Vardaithil claimed. Arwen watched the muscles of his face work in a furious dance. Confusion muddled her mind. What had happened to so rile a crown prince? She did not want to consider the answer to her question. "I do not wish to speak ill of your wisdom, but please be frank with me. What would you have me do here in Lórien? Gladly I will leave you a force to augment your own, but you must understand my urgency to return to my father. A dark time has come to him!"

Celeborn spoke gently. His calm voice sought clearly to diffuse the other's pained anger. "I would not deny you that, Vardaithil. All the same, Mirkwood's powerful army is needed on the battlefield at Gondor. A great fight is coming. My Lady has seen it night and day, in wake and sleep, and if in it we should lose, all the terror of a second Dark Age will come to Middle Earth. Your father's plight must wait."

Vardaithil's face grew dark and rancorous. "I wish not to aid men. They have brought nothing but sorrow to the free peoples of our world. They deserve to drown in the greedy murk they have created!"

Elrond narrowed his eyes. "Those are not that words of a prince of Mirkwood, Vardaithil. The disaster of the One Ring is not the fault of men alone! I once thought as you do, young one. Men are divided, leaderless, lost and hopeless. Yet they would unite and fight bravely if given the chance. I have known the son of Arathorn for many years. He has valor enough to carry the stain of his heritage!" Elrond lowered his voice. "We cannot simply turn our backs to them. Before they were our allies. You do your brother shame, for he is a friend to man."

"And he is dead because of it!" hissed Vardaithil angrily.

Arwen blanched. A thick silence slammed down upon the room, crushing them all, and she could not breathe. Legolas dead? No! Surely she would have felt something, known somehow… The shock sucked the strength from her heart and the air from her lungs. She wanted to scream, to cry, to choke out a denial, but she was numb. As though life had fled her with the cursed knowledge, some part of her soul shriveled. A flood of memories stampeded over her stricken resolve. Legolas sparring with Aragorn, tackling him, wrestling in the grass and laughing. Legolas singing under the moon. Legolas perched atop a tree, lost in the wind and the sun. Legolas' smile, the one he saved for when she needed uplifting, the secret grin of affection he gave to her and her alone… It could not be true! "You… you lie," she moaned.

Vardaithil's stony eyes centered upon her. She knew then his rage and his pain. His loss. "I would not, Undómiel. And I mean no disrespect towards you. I am sorry. Surely you can understand my motives!" His last statement was directed to the entire council.

The words came faster and faster, but Arwen could not hear them. Her heart was ripped and bleeding. There was an argument, but she was lost to it. She was lost to everything, numb in the ebb and flow of life. Legolas was so proud and strong… how could he have fallen? And if he was dead, what had happened to Aragorn? They had been so close, so devoted to each other as brothers and friends, that one would never stand for the hurting of the other.  _Ai, Elbereth, undo this crime against them!_

The conversation slammed back to her then. Vardaithil's enraged voice boomed through the chamber. "You forget, Lord Elrond the Half-Elven, that I was there that day three thousand years ago as well. My people were slaughtered on that battlefield. I saw the strength of men falter. I saw Isildur take the Ring for his own. I saw the failing of the line of kings, the weakening of the blood of Númenor!" The Elf prince's eyes burned. "On the slopes of Mount Doom man created this fate for himself. We tried once to help them. We died so that they might make better the mistakes of the past, so that they might recover from their ignorant deception! That brought us nothing, and my brother is dead. To aid them again is folly and I will not have it!"

Elrond's expression was hard. Through her tears, Arwen regarded her father, envying his strength. Surely he as well knew what Legolas' death implied. Ruin had come to the Fellowship. Aragorn might be lost. But he showed none of his distress on his smooth face. His eyes gleamed in understanding and his voice was soft with sympathy. "I feel your anger and resentment as well, son of Thranduil. I would lie if I said I too do not have my doubts about men. But it is not ours to judge or to condemn. If the Lady's vision is true, this will be the decisive battle, the moment that will define the course of Middle Earth for ages to come. We cannot in good conscience abandon the fight against Sauron now. The time of our people on these shores may indeed be coming to a close, but we still have a duty to this world."

Vardaithil seemed torn. Numbly Arwen felt compassion for him. The choice he faced was not an easy one. The silence stretched on infinitely, the grief and despair thick and suffocating, and no Elf had the strength to speak. Vardaithil closed his eyes and tiredly rubbed his temples. "Ai, but for the pain of my father would I agree! He is lost in sorrow. When I left Mirkwood, he was bent with sadness. My heart aches for him, and for my brothers. We are divided, and none should have to face such pain alone."

"Of course not," said Celeborn quietly.

"But you would have me leave him to grieve in solitude," said Vardaithil coolly.

Galadriel spoke calmly, undisturbed by the other's spite. "These are dark times, son of Thranduil. We each must do what we can to keep what peace there is in Middle Earth. Your brother understood this and accepted his fate." The pale face seemed tranquil and sad. "I have no authority to direct your actions. You need not obey me, for I am not your governor. I only ask for your help. The House of Thranduil has always been wise as it is strong."

The words seemed to calm him. Vardaithil lowered his head slowly, closing his eyes. Arwen watched as he clenched and unclenched his hand into a fist. "My father requested that I aid you in any way I see fit," he said softly. "If this will help you, then I shall do it. What do you wish of my forces?"

If Galadriel was at all relieved by his submission, it did not show on her delicate face. "This new future offers another source of danger that I had not previously seen," she finally admitted quietly.

Elrond raised an eyebrow. "What sort of danger?"

"It is not related directly to the plight of the One Ring, but the evil of its base is the same. I have seen the destruction of Lórien had the hands of a man. I do not know who he is or from where he comes, but the taint of Saruman is upon him."

Glorfindel seemed disturbed and contemplative. "Why would Saruman target Lórien?"

"I am uncertain if he himself has directly sent this one to attack us, or if private greed and ambition govern the man's actions. Regardless, this threat is loud in my mind. The Golden Wood is in danger," Galadriel declared. A gasp of dread and few strangled murmurs went through those of her people that were in attendance. She released a long breath. "This threat, though grave, cannot have our primary attention. Lord Vardaithil, I request you to march your army east to Gondor. There become an ally to the son of Arathorn. I do not ask you to forgive him, but simply accept him. When the dark forces attack, it will be Mirkwood that defines the course of Middle Earth."

It was still a moment, Vardaithil's dark eyes locked upon Galadriel's clear gaze. "And if Mirkwood should fall? If Lórien should be attacked?" he questioned, not to challenge, but to simply make the point.

"The Galadhrim may be few, but we are strong and experienced. We will not easily be defeated," Celeborn declared resolutely. Beside him the two Elf messengers nodded with pride. "The trees of Mirkwood have seen much. This you know. Do you believe them strong, fierce in the face of adversity and loving of their people? Worry not; Greenwood the Great will not fall as long as we fight. Your father is a powerful king; he will never surrender."

The words were a consolation, not only to Vardaithil, but to all in the room whose hearts were troubled. Arwen closed her eyes. She was grateful for her grandparents' equanimity, but, though what they had said was comforting, it did not ease her trouble. Hers was a personal pain that the others, she knew, could not understand. The hurt grew, pulsing like the beat of the heart that thudded so heavily in her chest. In the pit of her stomach her worry festered, growing and swirling until she thought she might be sick. She felt her father's hand find its way into her own, the strong fingers tightening about hers. He offered her his support, his sympathy. She was grateful for it, but it did little to assuage her pain.

The meeting dispersed quietly and lethargically. Concerns were uttered, condolences shared. She was blind and deaf to it. A quiet breeze that smelled of the woods. A laugh. A smile. Eyes as deep as the bright sky. A tender hand. A chaste kiss of departure. Bleeding hearts, lost souls.  _"No amount of distance or danger can sever the ties between us."_

She looked to the sky and thought of Legolas. It seemed to weep a million drops of stars. A tear escaped dull eyes. It slid down her cheek in a cold trail.

Eärendil glowed gently and she wondered. A little star burning in a sea of dark, magnificent enough to be distinct despite all twinkling lights. Such vitality to always shed its grace upon them! It gave her hope. Aragorn would find his way.  _Please be safe, my love. Come back to me. Come home._

* * *

Finally they found him.

For days they had walked the black forests of Minas Morgul, weeding through the trees upon a trail that was poorly marked and easily lost. There had been little to guide them, for the woods had still relentlessly sung a tale of crushing loss and sorrow, and they themselves had all but lost any faith that had somehow remained. The harsh accusations from the man of Gondor had hurt them both deeply, though neither had had the strength to admit it. To simply give up had suddenly seemed horridly wrong, and with wavering hope they had again set out on the quest appointed to them by their father. Words had not been shared, comforts remained unsaid. Relentlessly they had pursued old and fading tracks, clinging perhaps to some last bit of a dream that the silence in their hearts was more a trick than fact, that the song was a mere nightmare that would fade when they once again came upon their brother. They had traveled for days, fueled on these hopes. Both feared them to be silly and futile, but neither had the courage to dismiss them. Neither had they the will to admit the shame they had placed upon themselves and their father. Thoughts were a trivial thing best left to themselves; they offered no comfort or means to remedy the situation. So in a tense quiet they had run, daring to hope.

What fools they had been!

Aratadarion swallowed heavily and felt himself begin to shake. He did not need to look twice to assure himself that indeed he saw truth; he knew with crushing finality that his eyes played no trick. Astaldogald stiffened beside him. A long, quiet moment passed between them, each paralyzed by uncertainty and terror. Anxiety and shock clashed together to disorient them. So long had they traveled. So long had they searched. This could not be!  _They could not be too late!_

Aratadarion again felt his legs and his hands, the tingling numbness abating with a rush of panic and despair. The sound of his pounding heart and gasping breath boomed in his ears, and without further hesitation, he stumbled forward.

Lying on the ground, curled weakly on his side, was Legolas. Aratadarion skidded to his knees beside his unconscious brother, feeling lost and hopeless. He did not wish to look, but he knew he must. Indeed the form before him rose and fell with breath, though each instance was a mere rasp. With terrified eyes, the Elf glanced along his lost brother's body. He was a mess of bruises and welts, so much so that Aratadarion wondered for a moment if this truly was his sibling. Legolas' fair skin was split and lacerated with aged wounds and caked thick with grime. His once soft and beautiful hair, so much the gift of their mother, was tangled with mud and blood. This wrecked shell of a creature bore little resemblance to the proud prince he had once known.

Yet it was not these things that truly drove terror into his heart. Wounds of the flesh were simple enough to cure for an Elf, for the gift of immortality as well granted their kind with great resilience and ease in injury. Aratadarion reached out a shaking hand. His long fingers touched gently his brother's sweat-coated brow. The Elf screamed and recoiled.

"What?" asked Astaldogald fervently, his eyes wide with angered disbelief. "What is it?"

Aratadarion was shaking so violently he doubted he could form the words. He tasted hot tears and felt the panic stab at his rapidly crumbling resolve. Desperately he rubbed his hands together, wishing above all else to rid himself of the horrible heat of his brother's skin. "He is hot. He burns with fever! Ai, Legolas!"

Astaldogald regarded him with a piercing glare a moment. His stony expression wavered as he, too, crouched beside the fallen form huddled beneath the cloak. Aratadarion watched his twin through blurry eyes. The world seemed to shift each time he blinked from reality to nightmare. Astaldogald shook his head and fell backwards. His face was white. "This… this is not possible!" Aratadarion did not know what to say, if there was anything at all that might change this horrible happening. It was so painfully clear that he could not deny for all the want of his heart. Elves do not develop fevers. His brother's skin burned his cool fingertips. Elves glow with earthly radiance and shine with all the glory of Middle Earth. Legolas was pale and shivering. Somehow Aratadarion found initiative to move, and he crawled closer. His entire form was shuddering with sobs and fear as he again he neared his brother's limp figure. He dreaded touching the thin body but he could not deny his need to know, to understand. To confirm his worst fear. His long, trembling fingers gently pulled open a closed eyelid.

The blue orbs hidden within were dull. Their light was gone, stolen, replaced by the weight of a dark magic. Aratadarion swallowed the wail building in his throat. He leaned back on his heels. A strange peace of understanding was coming to him, and with it arrived a cold numbness. Saruman had ripped Legolas in half, tearing him from the song of the trees. Aratadarion vacantly stared at the young, bloodied face that was his brother. He was somehow now a stranger wearing a mask of familiarity. This was why Legolas had been silenced. This was why the trees had wept.

His brother had been made mortal.

It was a horrifying conclusion, but his mind would not allow him to ignore it. It explained too much too well. The pitiful creature sleeping before him reeked of the shadow. The curse clung to him like a foul aura and it nauseated Aratadarion. The prince's mind reeled in despair and anger. How could Saruman have done such a thing? Why had he turned Elf into a mere man? The answer was sickeningly obvious, though Aratadarion did not wish to see it. The evil wizard had sought to bring turmoil unparalleled to Legolas. Wounds of the flesh were but discomforts to the race; they would not have been sufficient to break an Elf, let alone one so proud and strong as Legolas. Aratadarion imagined harsh words and vile taunts, threats of endless night and a lost hope, and he shuddered. What better way to crush a spirit than split it from the blood of its making? What crueler punishment for one meant to live forever in the splendor of nature than to sever him from his destiny? What sicker pleasure could there be in dirtying a pure and powerful light with the torment of such a curse? To turn an Elf into something else, something lesser and tormented… deprived of the song of the trees, of keen senses and greater understanding, of the Valar, of the Undying Lands, of the beauty of all things living… Neither Elf nor man. A creature without place, without purpose. Without hope.

Aratadarion cursed Saruman then. He was not one easily given to rage or hate, but these yearnings he could not deny. Hot tears burned his face as he wept for his younger brother. A thousand worries buzzed through his stricken mind. His heart throbbed and he whimpered. The silence where once Legolas' vibrant life had sung inside him was so acute it became painful, and he felt overwhelmed by his despair. How could this be fair? How could this be right? How could they have been so late? Aratadarion balled his hand into a fist and choked on his breath.  _Father, forgive me!_

Through the muted pulse of his agony, he heard the ringing of metal upon metal. It was clear and loud, and it sliced through his hazy despair. The shock snapped and he ripped around.

Astaldogald violently ripped away the cloak from Legolas' limp body. In his hand he clenched his long, silver weapon. He stood over the helpless form upon the ground, the sword raised. The blade was shaking, his hands clenched so tightly about the hilt that his knuckles were white.

Aratadarion felt panic jolt him as he realized what his twin intended. "No!" he cried loudly.

Astaldogald's facial muscles tensed. His eyes burned in hate and absolute disgust. They gleamed with unshed tears. The sword lingered, poised to strike. "I will end his suffering," declared the Elf quietly, his teeth clenched so that the words were a hiss of enraged loathing. "He is fit for this world no longer!"

Terror stopped Aratadarion's heart. He scrambled closer to Legolas' side, raising his hands. He could not allow his twin to make this mistake! Mercy alone could not justify it! The blood would stain his hands forever! "You cannot! Please! Do not take his life!" he cried, his voice wrought with horror and grief.

"His life?" Astaldogald repeated incredulously. The Elf prince gave a twisted laugh that was at once cruel and tortured. "This is  _not_  life! Do you not see? He has been stained by the shadow! He is not one of us any longer! He is dead in our hearts! We cannot let this shame come to Father's house!"

Aratadarion felt his own rage bolster his wavering resolve. He did not want to cross his twin, least of all in such a dire moment. But he could not let Astaldogald to murder Legolas! "No," he said firmly, forcing his tone to be firm despite the quivering of his burdened heart, "this is not yours to end! He is our brother!  _Our brother!_ You cannot kill him!"

The sword tip shook with Astaldogald's rage tantalizingly close to the exposed flesh of Legolas' breast. One quick thrust would release their younger sibling from his suffering. One short stab would end it all. Its allure was undeniable. Aratadarion watched his twin shake in his anguish, torn visibly between his wrath and his sorrow. An endless moment crawled by, ominous and torturous.

"He disgusts me. I cannot accept this."

Aratadarion grimaced. He felt his anger building stronger and stronger, pressing against his restraint in ways he had never before experienced. If Astaldogald chose to threaten Legolas, he would have the courage to finally defy. He would protect his younger brother. Astaldogald had no right to kill him, regardless of the motive. Aratadarion's jumbled mind could not make sense of his twin's expression. He then felt the weight of the sword at his belt. He could use force to prevent his twin from hurting Legolas. The thought stunned him, but after a breath he simply accepted it. There was no reason, no justification that he could understand, and Astaldogald seemed all but unreadable. A murderous rage had claimed his twin; Aratadarion was sure it was ridding him of his sensibilities. Still, it was not right. He was as much a brother to Astaldogald as he was to Legolas. He could not let his twin strike down their helpless and hurt sibling!

"You must," said Aratadarion quietly. "Lay down your sword and calm your rage. This would be no mercy killing, and you know it." The venom in his voice surprised him.

Astaldogald's face shattered in icy anger, and his eyes flashed. "Do not preach to me!" he shouted, his voice taut in his fury. The sword whistled upward to point at Aratadarion. The other stepped back in shock and abrupt fear. "Could you see him grow old and die? Could you accept that? Mortality is a curse! There is a reason Elves do not love lesser creatures! Father taught us this for our own good, but Legolas never listened! He  _never_  understood what affection for mortals meant!" Astaldogald lowered the sword once more. "I cannot see him grow old. I cannot see him die like a filthy mortal, rotted by age and disease! His love for Isildur's heir reduced him to a mere shadow! I will not stand to see Father's blood putrified like this!"

"It does not matter," countered Aratadarion. He was quickly coming to understand, but this realization did not stifle his anger or his pain. "Keep still your heart and think of what you mean to do, I beg of you. You would murder your brother for your own sake!"

"Silence!" roared Astaldogald. "You disgust me as well! I would end his life to spare father the dishonor and the disservice he has done us!"

Aratadarion nearly faltered. Never before had his twin spoke to him in such a harsh tone, and it hurt him deeply to know he had offended the other. The wretched words burned in his ears. His own anger gave him strength, though, and he tumbled on. "Drop the sword and back away," he declared coldly. "I know why you would kill him. I understand. You are afraid."

The other blanched, but then his heated irritation brought again a flush to his cheeks. "I am no coward," Astaldogald hissed.

"You are," insisted Aratadarion, glaring at his twin. The words fled his mouth in a rush. "You are afraid to admit that you love a mortal. You are afraid of what this will mean, of what it will become. You wish to kill him now, before you can again let your heart embrace him. You are afraid of the pain!" Aratadarion narrowed his eyes. "I will not let you hurt him."

"Stand down," growled Astaldogald.

"You are my brother, not my commander!  _You_  stand down!" For a moment after, neither spoke, both breathing heavily in ire. Time halted and waited for a decision to be made. It was slow to come, but the long moments served to diffuse the unbelievable tension. Aratadarion inhaled gently, regretting his harsh words then and feeling the sadness again threaten. He abruptly felt very tired. "Please," he said softly, tears once more burning his eyes. He met his twin's gaze and saw the same storm of weary emotion swirl in the dark eyes. "Let him live. Father would never forgive you if you took his life. I do not think you would ever be able to forgive yourself, either." Aratadarion reached forward tentatively, opening his hand towards the quivering blade. A tear escaped Astaldogald's eyes and slowly coursed down his pale countenance. The sword trembled almost violently. " _Please."_

Finally Astaldogald relented. Instead of giving the blade to his twin, he slid it back into its sheath with cold ring. Relief pounded upon Aratadarion, and he nearly collapsed. The feeble strength he had summoned to protect Legolas fled as quickly as it had formed, leaving him shaken and weak. He wept silently anew, vastly grateful that he had not had to witness the death of one brother at the hands of another.

They were silent, winded from the conflict, tortured by the unrelenting swarm of emotions battering their hearts. Aratadarion gracefully sunk to his knees again beside Legolas' sleeping form, burying his face in his hands. Astaldogald stepped shakily to the side, folding his arms across his breast. As though unbelieving of what had nearly happened, as though unable to understand the forces that tore at bonds between twins, they lingered in the emptiness. The hungry, guilty void sought to devour them in order to fill itself with meaning.

"He will die anyway if we cannot find help."

Aratadarion raised his head from his wet palms at the words. He wondered if his twin was not simply now being cruel as a retort for his actions in defending Legolas. Astaldogald stood with his back to him, and he directed his imploring gaze from his twin then to Legolas. Their brother whimpered weakly in his sleep. Curiously Aratadarion crept closer, leaning over the bent form. He grabbed the discarded cloak then and drew it up over Legolas' quivering body. Though the daze of the argument was sluggish in its disappearance, he turned his attention to his fallen brother. "Someone else has seen to him," he stated simply, taking note then of the fresh bandages wrapped about Legolas' feet.

"The cloak is undeniably of the Galadhrim," declared Astaldogald softly, pivoting to face them again. The tenuous peace between them grew a bit stronger.

Aratadarion narrowed his eyes in thought. Could a Lórien Elf have come upon Legolas somehow? The idea made little sense; the folk of the Golden Wood did not often venture beyond its safe borders, and it seemed ludicrous for one to travel so far into such dangerous land with no obvious cause. However, his twin was right; the cape was of the finest weaving. The brooch was a figure of a leaf. Only Lórien produced such a thing. Could Legolas still have had his since the Fellowship had left the Golden Wood upon the Anduin so many weeks ago? Aratadarion then chastised himself for his slow reckoning. He understood who had found Legolas. "Boromir was here. This is his garment."

"Indeed. The thought does not much console me. If the son of Denethor located Legolas, why did he leave him alone in such a horrible place?" Astaldogald wondered quietly.

Aratadarion shook his head numbly. There was no obvious answer. Boromir had made so clear his intention to help Legolas. If he had come upon their brother in such a sad state, why had he abandoned him to the danger of Minas Morgul? He grew disconcerted at the thought and decided not to consider it. It was not difficult to direct his attention elsewhere.

He looked to his brother. Despite his disgust and sorrow, he forced himself to have mettle. Gingerly he laid a narrow hand upon Legolas' brow and grimaced when he felt the sickening heat. He was not well versed in the arts of healing and medicine; for an Elf, the science was rather trivial. Never before had he dealt with mortal sickness. He had come across a few books involving treatment of fever during his studies many years prior, but he was unsure how reliable the information might be. He cast aside this worry, for this limited knowledge was all he had at his disposal, and it undeniably was better than nothing at all.

Quickly he picked through his pack for a few herbs and water. One particular sprig he plucked from the bundle and began to shred with shaking fingers. His rushed breath seemed too loud. "We cannot make a fire," said Astaldogald quietly, sensing his twin's unsaid hope. "I have heard cries in the dark three nights past. There are Black Riders in these woods. The light would attract them."

Aratadarion battled tears, watching his sick little brother shake roughly with chills.  _You must be strong,_  his mind chastised.  _You must not fail!_ "Come, sit next to him. We shall keep him warm with our own heat."

"Why not take him now and flee?" Astaldogald asked. He was clearly miffed about the idea of sharing his body warmth so intimately. Elves were not generally prone to open displays of concern or affection, and he in particular found such acts less agreeable than most.

"I do not think he would survive it," whispered Aratadarion. The words left his numbed lips of their own accord.

Astaldogald's eyes flashed again in annoyance. "Treat his fever and we shall be off."

"Nay," the other murmured, mixing the ripped stalk and leaves of the herb into the water. "I do not know enough about mortal sickness. I doubt strenuous travel will be of benefit. We must lessen the fever before it damages him. Please, come rest here. We have precious little time and even fewer options."

Astaldogald glared upon for a moment. Had this been any other day, perhaps even a few hours before, Aratadarion would have immediately regretted his words out of fear of demeaning his twin. Now the same fierce anger that had before guided his tongue in quarrel bolstered his resolution, and he did not look away. Astaldogald huffed finally after a moment. Indignantly he stepped closer and dropped to the ground near them. Aratadarion cast his twin a reproaching look, and it was somehow enough to chastise the other into coming closer.

Steeling himself, Aratadarion laid a hand upon Legolas' brow once more. "Legolas," he prodded quietly. The huddled form seemed to pull tighter into itself. Aratadarion felt his doubt crowd upon whatever courage he had, but he would not allow himself give up. "Legolas, wake up. Open your eyes." When that failed to rouse his slumbering brother, he patted his flushed cheek firmly. "Come now, Legolas! Wake!"

A heated gasp that was distorted by a hacking cough answered, and long eyelashes fluttered. Aratadarion felt nervousness and fear twist his stomach painfully as his brother's lifeless eyes opened. They were a sight of loss, of a nightmare, of a devastated soul. He felt his tears again. "Yes, little brother. Come back to this world."

Dry, cracked lips moved weakly, but at first made no sound. Legolas' glazed blue eyes struggled to focus upon him. They blinked. Once. Twice. A glint of lucidity, of recognition. "Ara… Aratadarion?" His voice was little more than a rasping whisper.

His smiled weakly. "It is I, Legolas, and Astaldogald. We have come to take you home," he assured softly.

Fear and grief passed through Legolas' gaze, so strong and vivid that they pierced Aratadarion's resolve. The silence inside him screamed in rage. "Why… why do you cry?"

In embarrassment and worry, Aratadarion quickly wiped away the stream of tears dampening his cheeks. He did not wish to upset his ailing brother with his own distress. "I am merely glad you are safe," answered Aratadarion.

Weakly Legolas lifted his hand. The burning palm, drenched and clammy with sweat, pressed to Aratadarion's cheek. Clear tears slid from the corners of Legolas' eyes. "He did this to me," he whimpered. His bruised face fractured into a taut expression of despair.

Astaldogald watched intently, obviously caught between concern and aversion. "Who, Legolas? Tell us!"

Aratadarion shook his head and took the hand from his face into his own. The skin felt sick and searing. Panic churned within him. Seeing Legolas like this terrified him. "He is delirious. He speaks without thought," he quickly declared. Gasping the weak and shaking hand, he grabbed the flask. "Drink this, my brother. It will ease your fever. It will make you better."

But Legolas shrugged away from him, turning weakly to his side and curling protectively into a ball. "Do not lie to me!" he gasped, quivering with frightening intensity. "I see it in your eyes! You hate me!"

Aratadarion throbbed in agony for their plight. He glanced once at the still and hard Astaldogald before clasping his brother's arm. "Of course not, Legolas! Lie still; you will make yourself worse," he chided gently.

"You would that you never found me," came the whispered response. Aratadarion felt guilt and terror wash him cold. "You would that you never knew what has become of me!"

Astaldogald grunted in aggravation and suddenly grasped Legolas by the shoulders. He pressed his brother to his back and held him steady. Legolas struggled feebily, but he had no strength to fight. Aratadarion opened his mouth to object, but the words would not come. Something wretched and dangerous had crawled into his twin's sharp glare. "Look at me, little one," snapped Astaldogald harshly, staring relentlessly into Legolas' bewildered and horrified eyes. "Look at me and speak the truth! A great dishonor has been done to Father in you, Legolas, and you will answer me! Who did this to you?"

Legolas choked on a sob, shuddering with each labored breath, but he did not answer. Aratadarion winced. The quivering body had once been mighty and pure, agelessly beautiful and wise. The dark curse suffocated them all. "Answer me, Legolas!"

"Let him go," ordered Aratadarion, unable to stand to see their brother further tormented. "Please!"

Astaldogald did not comply, leaning closer. His breath was a hiss through clenched teeth. "Was it Aragorn, little one? Did he leave you to the enemy? Did he betray you?"

Legolas whimpered in obvious panic, squeezing his eyes shut. Sobs and coughs shook him; he was fighting to breathe. Aratadarion's anger burst through his control, and he grabbed his twin's arm. Quite forcefully he pushed the other side, releasing Legolas. "Enough. Aragorn had naught to do with this! Your hatred of him is unfounded!" Protectively he pulled Legolas into his embrace. The young one collapsed into his arms, gasping and weeping, clinging to him as though Aratadarion was his last link to sanity.

"Equally so is your defense of him!" snapped Astaldogald as he righted himself. A long silent moment then followed, filled with rushed breaths and the stifled sobs of Legolas. Aratadarion said nothing more, knowing sadly that already he had voiced too much. He prayed his twin would not think further on the matter, but he knew it was folly. He cursed himself for his reckless words! Aratadarion did not look to Astaldogald, keeping his gaze fixed upon Legolas' shaking body wrapped in his arms. His heart felt his twin's rage when his eyes chose not to see. The Elf shook inside at the waves of anger and betrayal buffeting against him, struggling hard now to hold back the drowning distress and concentrate on other matters. He must act nonchalant and innocent. Still, when the cold question came, he could not stop the shudder from twitching his form. "How would you know such?" Aratadarion could not answer. "How would you know that Aragorn is innocent?"

Aratadarion's hands shook as he tried to ignore the inquiry. He laid Legolas back down gently, his brother moaning and limp. Astaldogald grabbed his shoulder and forced him to look up. "Why do you defend him? Surely you do not believe the son of Denethor's lies!"

Aratadarion pulled away gently, feeling his strength flutter. "He did not lie," declared he quietly, pulling again the cloak over Legolas.

"Then how can you explain his guilt, his remorse? Why did he, a man, so fervently search for an Elf? What could have driven him other than shame?" Aratadarion grimaced as his twin thus answered his own questions. He hoped that Astaldogald would not have this epiphany, but he knew that that too was beyond foolish. His twin was a clever Elf. He would not miss such an obvious conclusion!

And Astaldogald sure enough did not. His voice was lost, strangled, as he ended the endless moment. "Boromir… He was the one." Aratadarion sat still as his twin spoke, stiff and frightened of what now this revelation could mean. Silence. He lingered painfully in the instance, struggling to find strength, wishing desperately to somehow simply end this all. He felt rotten to the core. "You knew." The statement was laced with hurt, with betrayal and anger. Tears leaked from Aratadarion's eyes. He had never meant to harm Astaldogald! "You knew and you did not tell me. Why?"

The accusing tone stabbed into him, and he closed his eyes. Guilt and shame consumed him. "I did not think it wise," he answered softly. The excuse felt lame, but he could voice nothing else.

Astaldogald exploded in fury. "You allowed me to break bread with the demon that made our brother mortal! You let his crimes pass from us without retribution!  _Why?_ "

The anger came again, and Aratadarion did not fight it. "Finding Legolas was more important than doling out death and judgment! Boromir is not ours to blame and certainly not ours to punish! I did not want to see you kill out of revenge!" Surprised by the heat in his tone, Aratadarion turned back to Legolas. For a long moment, neither spoke, each wrought by much conflicting thought and emotion. "Your hatred shames me at times. I did not say this before because it brought me no serious burden. Now I tell you plainly. Would you kill Boromir because he is a traitor that happens to be a man or because he is a man that happens to be a traitor? I did not know. I still do not. Father tells me I am quiet and meek. I am so because  _your_  arrogance and hate overshadow me. Nay, Astaldogald, I did not tell you because I had no faith in your control. Now that you know, I trust you even less."

His words were met with a harsh silence. He turned then to regard his brother. Astaldogald was white; whether with fury or guilt, Aratadarion did not know. The twin sons of Thranduil were still, divided now in a way they never had been before, the suffering of their youngest sibling the foundation of the wall growing between them. Aratadarion turned away finally and grabbed again the flask of water. "Let us care for Legolas. It is our duty. He is as much Father's son as we are, even though this dark stain has been laid upon him."

He did not wait for Astaldogald to respond. Somehow he knew he had shocked his twin into a silent submission. Deep inside him, where thoughts that rarely came to light resided, he was proud and a bit satisfied. For the first time in what seemed to be forever, he had held his ground. Vaguely he was sad that it took such a horrible occurrence to force him to have courage. Still, as he helped the drifting Legolas sit up and drink from the flask, he felt relieved. Perhaps his father had been right to send him after all. Perhaps he indeed did have the bravery and strength as prince and an Elf to do what was needed of him. Thranduil's parting words again came to him.  _"Be well, and care for your brothers. The metal of your heart is your greatest virtue."_  Until then he had doubted the truth of the statement. Now he was beginning to understand.

Aratadarion worked silently, noticing only momentarily his twin's approach. Astaldogald sat beside Legolas once more, resigned and silent, stiffly offering the aid Aratadarion demanded. Had Aratadarion been more attentive of his twin, surely he would have noticed the foul aura spreading from Astaldogald like smoke from a building fire. Their fight and his betrayal had only added fuel to the blaze growing within him. The murderous rage hardened in dark eyes, drowning out light and truth and replacing vigor with violence. The intent was stark and clear. His body radiated his fury.

As it was, though, Aratadarion did not see this as he drew Legolas, wrapped once more in the cloak, into his embrace for both comfort and warmth. Astaldogald fumed silently. Fire and ice. Anger and peace. Hate and love. These things had once coexisted in two different beings. Now they clashed, splitting blood from blood and heart from heart. The wall between twins, built of terror and spite, would not easily come down. Though neither chose to admit it to each other or themselves, they knew the price for their division would in the end be great.


	18. Much Left to Conquer

Sam was lost. He leaned tiredly against a blackened rock and breathed heavily. For a moment he could do nothing else, wearied by the traveling, confusion, and growing depression. The winded Hobbit looked ahead. A great expanse of gray rock and putrid dirt that was marked by hills and boulders stretched to the mountains. Sam winced and then turned to glance behind him. The same bleak land met his eyes. For miles he had walked upon it, making an uncertain path through the barren wasteland, running through shadows where possible, trekking ever closer to the fiery inferno he saw scorching the eastern skies.

The Hobbit sighed tiredly, staring at the bloody clouds ahead. He knew they marked the pinnacle of Mount Doom, and the ever-present sight had directed his weary feet and mind without question. He was close now; perhaps only a few more days stood between himself and the wretched volcano. Idly he had wondered what he might do when he finally came to the place, to the end of his journey, to the moment when he would destroy the Ring. With each somnolent step he had imagined what it might feel like to finally be rid of this horrible burden. The Ring had become a vicious weight dragging down his heart, heavy in its evil and loud in its soft melody. It seemed to only call more fervently to Mordor the closer he drew to Mount Doom, and Sam was tired of its plots against him. He felt the black eyes of Sauron's land trace his every movement, their vigilance disturbing. This fear he could have certainly done without. He preferred absolute solitude than the company of the Ring's desperate call.

Against the rock he rested. Indeed he was close to his destination, but there still seemed to be a great distance to walk, and Sam was beginning to lose the hope Gandalf had given him. The old wizard's words had been of great benefit to him, driving ambition and dedication into his heart, chasing away the guilt and shame borne into him by wearing the One Ring. As time passed, though, and lonely hours became dreary, frightening days, Sam had begun to wither. He had forgotten the shear paralyzing terror of traveling alone in Mordor. Every rock and gully held a potential nightmare. The air was wretched and hot, burning his lungs and infecting his body with poison. Each step was a test of his resolve. In the hours after Gandalf's departure, he had been adamant in his quest. Success was more than a duty to himself; it was a promise to Frodo and Legolas, a responsibility to all Middle Earth, a choice he had made. To this he struggled to remain true, though maintaining faith became more of a losing battle the closer he drew to Mount Doom. Mordor laid black and desolate around him, seeking relentlessly to suffocate him and drown his meager hope in despair. He wondered how he might fare the next days.

Sam swallowed heavily and gazed numbly at his feet. They were covered in gray dust and blistered by the traveling. So far they had taken him. So far they had yet to walk. He did not want to admit to himself his doubts, as though such a profession was a betrayal of Gandalf's trust in and of itself. In stead, he sank down, pressing his back to the protective rock. He would rest only a moment to soothe his aching heels.

The clouds were dense and dark this morning. The dawn had hardly touched them, their mesh of gray too tight and intense to allow the rising sun to caress the world in oranges and gold. They were dismal and oppressive, forever threatening rain. Every so often bright bolts of lightning streaked from cloud to cloud, stabbing the darkness with hideous and wicked light. Never was there thunder. It was as though the flashes marked a storm forever approaching, soundless and deadly. Sam had watched it worriedly for days. He wondered if he ever again would see the sun.

Chubby hands massaged tired ankles. The joints were stiff and felt terribly worn and overused, but the press of his fingers into the flesh eased their ache a bit. At his breast he felt a heavy burning and knew the Ring was yet again singing to Mordor. Since Gandalf's leave his feelings towards the tiny trinket had changed remarkably. No longer did he consider it a simple matter to simply hold until the time came to be rid of it. The Ring had become to him what he supposed it had been to Frodo. In his mind now was always this sick longing. He knew it was there, weakly whining on the edge of his consciousness, wishing fervently to draw attention he was not willing to let free. The yearning disgusted him, but he was fearful that in time it would grow, devouring his resolution and morality, turning him into what it had turned so many others. Was it perhaps a slow decline? He knew so little of these sorts of matters. The thought of becoming a wretch like Gollum or a monster like Boromir frightened him into cursing his ignorance. Had wearing the Ring even once forever tainted his soul with this sordid desire? And if he should wear it again, would that perhaps expedite his descent?

 _No,_  his mind vehemently announced.  _You won't ever wear it again. Never!_ The memory of the great Eye, fierce and fiery in its evil, brought cold chills to his small form, and he shuddered despite the dry heat of the air. It had haunted him in wake and sleep, chasing him, pushing his stout body ever harder and faster in his journey. The fear had heightened his senses into a state of frenzied paranoia; every shadow seemed to resemble an Orc, and every sound was surely indicative of a pursuer. Sam disliked the terror the Eye had wrought within him, but he could do little to change it. It denied him rest and drove him tirelessly. Peace was simply unattainable. In the beginning he had been afraid as well, for he was not a Hobbit of great strength or intelligence, and he had doubted his unremarkable abilities would be sufficient to complete this task. Now, though, that skepticism was dwarfed by a greater terror. He alone was carrying the Ring to Mount Doom. He alone was trying to destroy it. His friends were not there to guide him. Frodo could not offer him reassuring smiles or silent strength. The Fellowship was gone, scraped away by the evil of the Ring, and the Eye had seen him. What a sad truth! The nightmare brought to life in Sam was a bit of madness the mellow Hobbit had never before experienced. Combined with the repulsive singing of the Ring in his mind, it drained him, stealing his will, his hope, and his vitality. He was so very tired.

Sam blankly stared at the stone ground. He felt tears burning his eyes, but these he would not release. He knew if he began to cry he would not have the strength to stop, and he could not afford to allow his depression to gain sway over his heart. If such a thing should come to pass, the opportunistic and manipulative Ring would certainly make its move and claim his spirit for its own. It spoke softly and comfortingly now, but Sam knew it was only a rouse, a ploy to coax his tired mind into relenting to its shallow promises. It was such a tricky, little thing, this evil! He could not deny its allure. Yet the fear of what he had known and seen when wearing the Ring was enough to ward away the despair and force down the inviting call, and, after a moment of breathing calmly and clearing his mind, the crushing grip of misery released him.

The Hobbit shook a moment in relief. It had been another close brush with defeat. They seemed to come faster and faster, these bouts of weakness, and each took a bit more of him to overcome. Sam grunted angrily and suddenly pushed himself up, frustrated with himself. He was no worse off than he had been when Gandalf had left him. He had neither been attacked nor followed as far as he could discern. The days since the wizard's departure had been marked by monotony rather than danger. In fact, his greatest trial had been conquering his guilt, shame, and terror. These were enemies of his own making, and he could gladly do without them. He looked up again, ahead where the fires of Mount Doom burned the sky and turned the clouds red with rage. In his heart he drew together many things as a buffer against the pushing despair. He would not allow his own worries and fears to be the making of his failure!

So Sam again began to walk. The blackness all around him was hungry, but it would not dissuade or discourage him. He thought of pleasantries, concentrating on things past and things he hoped yet would come to bring him hope. He closed his eyes momentarily and breathed, and when he did, he smelled again the Shire. It was a familiar scent of pipeweed, good food, and fresh air of meadows that could only belong to the small village of Hobbiton. For a moment he could imagine himself there, and instead of hard rock punishing his feet, he felt the soft blades of grass tickle him. A cool wind swept by and picked up his hair, touching him with the caress of a mother for a son. There was the heat of the lazy afternoon sun upon his skin, and the laughter of friends and family. Would they welcome him when again he returned? What would such an occasion be like? He sank into his vivid imaginings, his feet carrying him of their own accord. Might there be a great party for returning heroes? Sam smiled faintly; he thought indeed there would be. He envisioned one not entirely unlike Bilbo Baggins' last birthday celebration in the Shire before the elder had left for Rivendell. It was filled with so many familiar faces, with much food and wine, with dancing and laughter. Gandalf's fireworks lit up the sky, amazing the innocent children, bringing beauty and excitement to the clear evening. The wizard he heard chuckling, quite content to bring these simple people such joy. He imagined Merry and Pippin, jovial in their success, merry-making with their families and friends and bragging about adventures taken and dangers beaten. At a table he saw Gimli and Legolas, friendly bantering with each other over some matter of trivial importance between Dwarves and Elves, and with them was Aragorn, laughing and jesting with them both. He felt himself in the arms of Rosie, whirling about the common area in a spirited dance that he had ages ago promised her, breathing in her soft, flowery fragrance and losing himself in her laughing eyes. He knew the appreciation and pride of his father, boasting words filling his ears and heart with delight. And Frodo. His dear, dear friend! Together again, at last home in the Shire, never to be now separated, fulfilling a vow made between brothers. In Frodo's blue eyes he saw tears of absolute relief and joy. In his face Sam knew peace. Friends old and new gathered to celebrate the defeat of the shadow, to rest in the company of good, hearty folk and each other.

It seemed so vivid! Sam again opened his eyes and nearly gasped, disappointed to find himself still trapped in the blackness of Mordor. He gave a wistful sigh and continued to walk, the visions slow to recede. Maybe this dream was not so impossible. Perhaps success was not so distant a thing. It was idealistic to think that destroying the Ring could restore all to what it was. He knew not how the others fared. It had been another matter of uncertainty and worry for him that had only amplified in his returning loneliness. If Gandalf had sought to contend with Saruman, then matters west were surely dark and dire. He prayed Legolas had been rescued, for his friend was far too fair and gentle a creature to suffer in the shadow. He hoped Strider had kept the others protected. The ranger was powerful and strong; Sam did not doubt he had maintained his wits about him. He wished for nothing more than he did for Frodo's safety. He knew his friend had a secret mettle within him not easily broken, but Sam still feared for Frodo. Knowing now the vile call of the Ring, he marveled at Frodo's strength in so long bearing it. Once again he wondered at the twist of fate that had placed him in a duty perhaps meant for his friend.

He remembered Gandalf's words. Sam was not well versed in matters of fate and destiny. Such things were beyond him, powerful but intangible, abstract and ill defined, and he had not the knowledge or wisdom to begin to understand the workings of things above the obvious. Yet what the wizard had said seemed to make a bit of sense, and even more, it offered some comfort. If indeed he was meant to now have the Ring, as Frodo was meant before to bear it, then perhaps it was no mistake that fate had chosen him. Such a strange thought!

He walked faster now. His stride grew in power and resolution. Life would find a way to correct itself, he was sure. Perhaps it would do so in him, and if that was the case, then Gandalf was right. He could do this  _because_  it had been appointed to him.

There came a scuffle ahead, and Sam abandoned his thoughts. Fear and terror chilled him, and he stood paralyzed, straining his senses. He did not have to wait long to discover what it was that had disturbed the silence.

Ahead, emerging from behind a sharp hill, rode a Nazgûl upon its stallion of black. For a moment Sam did naught but stare, frozen by his horror and alarm. Frantically his eyes scanned as the Ringwraith plodded forward, glancing about from atop the horse. Behind it appeared another, its black cape flowing like midnight as it followed. Sam forgot to breathe. Yet one more he then saw. Three. The Hobbit clenched in sheer agony and terror.  _Three!_

They milled about, obviously searching, and Sam could not think to even hide. The first turned in his direction. He whimpered.  _Run,_  his agonized mind ordered. His numbed body did not heed the command, and the Nazgûl grew alert as it saw him. It let loose a piercing howl, immediately drawing the attention of the others.  _Run!_ The cry sliced through Sam's stasis, and the Hobbit turned and fled.

Across the ground he flew, his heart beating rapidly, the rush of blood between his ears deafening. He could not think, his terror warding away all logic. Behind him was the thunder of racing hooves, and the shrieks of the demons as they pursued him. There had barely been any distance between himself and the Ringwraiths; he would never be able to outrun them! Tears streamed down his frantic face as he struggled for breath, pushing his body beyond his limits, his limbs paining him in tingling exertion. He thought he could hear the snorts of the beasts, smell the putrid breaths, feel the cold caress of undying night envelope him. Sam screamed.

There was a wall of rock ahead. Sam cursed himself frantically; he had run himself into a dead end! This was not the way he had come, and the boulders were tall. As he drew near, he noticed quickly that there were ledges and handholds in the stone. Could he climb this? He stood at the base, gazing up with teary eyes the height. The Nazgûl howled in delight as they approached rapidly. He realized he had no choice but to try.

Gripping the stone with slick, sweaty hands, he dug his toes into another grip and pulled himself up. His arms shook with the strain as he grunted, struggling to climb the surface. He had never been the most flexible or brave, and as a child he had been slow to reach the tops of trees much to his own chagrin and the amusement of his friends. Idly, as he struggled, he wished he had Pippin's quick hands and feet; the young Took had always been the first to win every race to the top. Sam had never really tried overly hard, knowing his own limits and fear. He chastised himself for previously accepting his limits!

They were upon him. Sam sobbed as he hauled his body higher, each grip tenuous and dangerous. He had not the time to adequately judge the safety of each hold. The Nazgûl screamed from below him, vexed that their catch was eluding them. Hands covered in metal gauntlets ripped upward, seeking to grab the fleeing Hobbit. Sam wriggled away, shuddering at each near touch, frantically trying to put more height between himself and the threat. His sweaty fingers were shaking and poor in their grip. A hand latched onto his ankle and yanked. He howled in absolute terror.

Panicked beyond all rational thought, Sam kicked and pulled. His foot collided with hard metal, and the tight grasp opened, releasing his other leg. While the Nazgûl shrieked in anger and frustration, he pulled himself higher, scrambling on the rock. Above there was a narrow ledge. He had to reach it! There was a chorus of metallic rings behind him, and Sam made the mistake of glancing over his shoulder. Three silver, wretched blades shot upward, violent and gleaming. They sliced through the air, singing a horrible melody of sharp threat, careening towards him. Sam wasted not a moment more. With all his strength, pushing his body like he had never before, he grabbed the ledge. Though his arms quivered and ached, he would not let go. Letting loose a feral howl, the small creature pulled himself onto the ledge.

The swords slammed into the rock with a shower of sparks and shards where his legs had seconds before been. Again the Ringwraiths screamed their rage when their strikes met nothing but stone. Sam rose to his feet upon the tiny ledge, pressing his body to the hot stone, relieved and a bit euphoric. Sweat and tears blurred his eyes, but the nightmare of black and silver below him was all too starkly clear. The demons dismounted. They intended to follow.

Whatever satisfaction that had eased him fled in a new wave of terror and panic. Sam reached behind him and grasped the rock. The top was only a few feet above him. Without thinking further, Sam angled himself around and jumped. His fingers scraped along the ragged edge, tearing his skin, but he held tight. The swords whistled behind him, hacking away at more of the rock in an attempt to stab his wriggling body. With a choked sob, Sam braced his feet against the ledge and pushed. He scrambled over the top.

No sooner than he rolled to his feet did the gauntlet of the Nazgûl slam down into dirt at his toes. Sam cried out in alarm and stumbled, falling hardly, sending paralyzing pain up his back. The narrow precipice crumbled as the great demon fluidly pulled itself up, its sword shining brightly. The other Ringwraiths were close behind the first, climbing atop the outcropping with loud thuds.

Sam scrambled back and looked around frantically. The ledge was narrow; on the other side was quite a steep drop, and its decline was littered with rocks. He could afford only a cursory glance as three long blades were raised, shining dully. They screamed downward, and Sam whimpered, skittering further back. The first two slammed into the rock, slicing through the ledge. The third nearly took off his head.

Sam inhaled harshly and crawled forward. A blade crashed downward, barely missing his legs, further destroying the precipice. The rocks were crumbling. The ledge was collapsing!

The plan was obvious. There was but one course of action, despite the needling of his vow made before. Although he hated and feared it, there was no other choice. It was a risk to take, but he would never otherwise be able to escape the Nazgûl!

As the rocks shook and shuddered under the weight, Sam quickly fished out the Ring from his tunic. The Nazgûl shrieked in sadistic glee as the sick trinket glinted, and they rounded on him once more. Gathering all his wits and strength, he jabbed his finger into the band and waited for the world to melt.

It was so bright, this place inside the Ring where light bleached the world. He was prepared for the nausea, for the soundless wind pummeling him, for the strange shadows and retarded motions. The old kings, sick and twisted by evil, grabbed at him in the twilight, but Sam wasted no time. He struggled to his feet and stumbled to the edge. A hand grabbed his cloak, yanking him back. Sam screamed into the void and pulled himself free. He would not allow them to get the Ring!

The ground lurched and there was suddenly nothing beneath his feet. The Nazgûl cried again as the outcropping collapsed under their weight and the harsh treatment of the swords. They fell backwards, down whence they had all come. Propelled by energy spent in escape, Sam pin wheeled forward. There was no air to breathe as he quickly lost his balance and slipped.

Sam knew nothing as he tumbled, the world a blurry, blaring image of pain and fear. Vaguely he felt himself rolling, colliding with stones and rocks. Beneath the disorientation he knew he was hurting. But he could do nothing to stop his fall. The screams of the Nazgûl pierced the void, drowning out the infernal whispering of the Ring. They punctured the vacuum where his own howls could not.

A thought occurred to his sluggish mind as he fell. The Ring was burning his finger. Inside its seductive call became a dominating demand. He felt his strength fading. He struck something hard, felt agony pierce his back. Exhaustion was overcoming him quickly. Blearily he looked up. In this strange world, dark blobs were descending slowly upon him. It seemed a funny thing, like falling plots of mud. Sam grasped the Ring and breathlessly yanked it from his finger.

The void faded as quickly as it came, and reality violently snapped back into motion. He felt pain. Blood. Fear. As he looked upon the still crumbling precipice, he realized he had fallen far, down into a deep ravine, walls of gray surrounding him. Those silly, falling blobs were hardly blobs at all. Sam screamed in panic. The last thing he saw was a rain of rock and stone descending upon him.

* * *

There were Orcs all around them. The stinking creatures had surrounded them, cornered them against a large boulder, and there was nowhere they might run.

Frodo gulped. Behind him he felt Gollum quiver, the wretched beast shaking violently enough to rattle his own form. In one sweaty hand he held Sting, the blade glowing ethereally, brightly blaring a warning that was now too late. The other fist was clenched about Legolas' long knife, and this he held defensively before his chest. The small creature shook with terror as he eyed the company trapping them against the rocks. All around the Orcs smiled gleefully. Each bore a spear or blade, leering at their catch hungrily. The sight of the passionate, animalistic violence in their beady eyes chilled Frodo's blood.

Once again the Hobbit cursed himself for what now was undoubtedly a choice made in foolery. Gollum had warned him that Orc patrols were likely to be combing the lands about the army, but Frodo had not paid the grotesque creature much attention. It had been his prejudice mostly, he realized, that had made him disregard Gollum's clearly sound advice. As well he had grown impatient with their slow, skulking pace. His concern for Sam had demanded a faster route. After they had cleared the flank of Sauron's forces, he had quit their path of a wide berth, deciding on a more direct route east. That had been the critical mistake, for many Orc companies were indeed roaming these lands, lately joining their comrades or scouting. He cursed himself now for his impatience!

"Leave us!" hissed Gollum frantically. The tone was strangled in the most intense fear. "Horrible Orcses! Leave us be,  _gollum!_ "

Silenced by his own panic and anger, Frodo said nothing. The Orcs seemed greatly amused by Gollum's insistences, and they poked and prodded at their cornered prey with their weapons. Frodo gritted his teeth. He was by no means a great fighter. His skill with the blade was severely limited, and he had not Aragorn's mettle, Gimli's strength, or Legolas' agility. He had quickly counted their odds. Only five Orcs had found them and surrounded them. Darkly, Frodo realized that, given his inadequacy in battle, it might as well have been fifty. Even if he could somehow best these adversaries, surely more would be alerted by the skirmish and quickly reinforce the enemy. He held his weapons tighter, squeezing the pommels until his palms ached dully.

Gollum latched his hands tightly into Frodo's cloak as the Hobbit took yet another step backwards. The Orcs pressed closer, and Frodo realized in panic that there was no room left to retreat. Frustrated tears of defeat collected in his eyes and his heart pounded in fatigued agony. This was the price to pay for his prejudice, for his impulsiveness! He squeezed his eyes shut in despair.  _I am so sorry, Sam!_

The Orcs shrieked in joy and advanced. Gollum screamed shrilly from behind him, but Frodo could not hear over the roaring of heart. Frantic, strong hands pulled and jerked at his cloak, yanking his body down, and weakly he complied. There was a flash of blinding light and a rush of a cool breeze. Frodo whimpered, dropping Sting and the knife to cover his head protectively. The monsters howled, screeching with a furious pitch that sounded almost strangled with sudden terror. A great scuffle resounded, and Frodo tucked himself tighter against the rock. Gollum's form he felt quivering behind his own, the creature's sick breath warm on the back of his neck. A rumble of feet, an angry snarl, the clink of weapons poised to strike. He did not want to die like this! Oh, such a failure! Such a horrible waste! His heart quivered helplessly in need for his life.

Frodo waited what seemed to be forever for a blow that never came. The daze of sadness and anger held him captive, and he was too frightened to break free from its grasp. Only when silence came to him over the rush of blood in his ears did he begin to again hope. It was a queer emptiness, one that both relieved and alarmed him, and his curiosity began to best his terror. Slowly the Hobbit opened one eye. What he saw around him confused him enough for his panic to abate quickly. Strewn about where now the bodies of their tormentors, covered in brackish blood from wounds the small creature could not detect. Relief weakened Frodo immensely, and he felt cold tears rush from his eyes.

"No need to cry now, Frodo," came an old, familiar voice.

Frodo ripped around and blanched. Standing beside the boulder that had blocked their escape, glowing brightly in robes of the purest white and rippling with tangible power, was Gandalf. The Hobbit's heart stopped momentarily in shock, and a thousand frantic questions stampeded through his numb mind. When his paralyzing alarm faded, his trembling face broke into a relieved smile.

Frodo wept in amazement and joy, forgetting his horror, despair, and pain as Gandalf stepped closer, leading a horse behind him by the reins. The Hobbit could contain himself no longer and with an ecstatic shout he threw himself into Gandalf's waiting embrace. The old wizard chuckled softly as he wrapped old, strong arms around the small creature's shaking form. Frodo buried his face into Gandalf's shoulder, astonished and exhilarated at the other's appearance. "Oh, Gandalf!" he gasped, comforted greatly by this simple moment. He leaned back and smiled, feeling mirth and hope come back to his heart. His face glistened brightly with tears. "Gandalf, you're alive!"

The old wizard gave a crooked smile. It seemed a bit strained and weary, but it reached his dark eyes and brought to life in Frodo so many good, warming memories of laughter and companionship. "Indeed, young Baggins. You are quite lucky that I came upon you here!"

Frodo then bowed his head in shame. "I've made a terrible mess of the task you gave me, Gandalf," he admitted sorrowfully. The words burned like poison, but he could not keep them inside any longer. He prayed the wizard would find no fault in him for the horrible turn of things. "I'm so sorry."

Gandalf rose slowly. "You have done no wrong, Frodo, for which apologies are necessary! You and Samwise are too alike in that!"

Frodo held his breath. "You have seen Sam?"

The wizard's face turned serious and his voice became quiet. "I have, Frodo. He has carried on in your stead."

The words held such finality. No longer could he question. No more could he doubt. Sam had somehow obtained the lost Ring at Amon Hen so many weeks ago. Sam had gone alone and bravely into Mordor, continuing the quest the Fellowship had been forced to abandon. Sam was facing dangers meant for himself. The thoughts brought to life in Frodo intense grief and shame. How could he have let this happen? How could he have allowed his dearest friend to suffer? Again came the horrible memories: Boromir's lust, the wretched Ring burning against his chest, the pain in his head… He closed his eyes against the tears. "I have done him a great disservice."

"He said he has done the same to you, young Frodo," declared Gandalf in a calm, comforting voice. Frodo looked up, his eyes wide and blue with unresolved emotion. The wizard offered him a small grin. "Your worry for him breds an overactive conscience!"

Gollum hissed. He had recoiled from Gandalf, obviously in fear and disgust. The white of the wizard's robes alone surely disturbed him. "Sméagol lead good Hobbit to the precious! Sméagol knows the way! We run!"

Anger and hate bubbled inside Frodo again abruptly, and he quickly cast the vile creature a sharp glare. "We're not looking for the Ring," he snapped angrily through clenched teeth. The tone of his voice shocked him. The vehemence was somehow misplaced, as though he was assuring himself of this fact more than Gollum. Frodo felt the color drain from his face. He had to avert his eyes from Gandalf, too ashamed to meet the wise, old gaze. "We're looking for Sam."

"Then I say this to you, Frodo. Go quickly and find him. I dreaded leaving him alone in this cursed land, but duty calls me elsewhere and I cannot ignore responsibility for all the want of my heart!" Gandalf announced remorsefully. If the wizard had noticed the strange note in Frodo's previous announcement, he chose not to speak of it, and for that the alarmed and unnerved Hobbit was glad. "There is sadly no time to speak more on the matter. Things are rapidly drawing to a close, and there is much yet to be done."

Frodo regarded the wizard quizzically then. "What do you mean, Gandalf? What things?" he asked quietly, feeling worry dizzy him. "Do you mean the army? You must tell Aragorn of it!"

The wizard ripped himself from a distant reverie and looked to him. The smile he offered now was weak and disheartening. "I will do that and more, my dear Frodo. But you must find Sam and help him. He is both strong and brave, but I fear this horrible place may become too much for him." Gandalf's concerns mirrored his own and Frodo nodded. "I can offer little in the way of aid, but I will give you this."

Frodo directed his gaze to the forgotten horse behind Gandalf. The stallion was tall and majestic, standing far above his own head. A silky coat glistened brightly despite the melancholy gray of the morning. He was truly a magnificent animal, and though Frodo knew little of horses, he could appreciate the mount's power and beauty. "This is Shadowfax. He once belonged to the king of Rohan."

"Rohan…" Frodo's voice trailed off in confusion and concern. "How could he have found his way here, Gandalf?" The wizard seemed dismayed. "He and I have bonded together through perils, which I will not now discuss. Over the bridge at Minas Tirith he came to Mordor, sensing my call for speed. I fear trouble has come to the Rohirrim. King Théoden would not easily relinquish his prized steed, and Shadowfax is greatly perturbed," the wizard explained.

"Aragorn was there," Frodo declared, worry permeating his tone. His eyes grew distant as he pondered a moment on the friends he had left behind. When his concerns muddled his reasoning, he looked to Gandalf's for reassurance. "Do you suppose they are well?"

Gandalf was quiet a moment. Frodo felt his concern grow at the wizard's hesitation. Then the other smiled, albeit slowly. "Surely," he said finally, "for Aragorn is wise and powerful. He will let no harm come to them." From behind them came a distant rumble of many feet. The Orcs were again on the move! "Quickly, now! Shadowfax will run tirelessly! He will take you to Sam!"

Breathlessly, Frodo knelt and reclaimed his fallen weapons. Sting he returned to his scabbard and the knife he scooped up from the dirt. Then he stepped to the horse. Gandalf, still gripping his staff, reached downward to grasp the small creature. Gently the great wizard placed the Hobbit upon the tall mount. Then they looked to Gollum.

The small creature's face broke in rage. "Bright horse! Horrible horse! Sméagol will not ride!" it hissed, cowering closer to the boulder. "Istar, Istar! Stay back from us,  _gollum!_ "

"If you will not ride, then be gone with you!" yelled Frodo. Shadowfax stepped impatiently below him.

Gandalf opened his mouth to speak, perhaps to chastise Frodo for his hateful words, but Gollum shouted first. "Mean Hobbit! Hateful Hobbit! We leave you now! Mean, mean Hobbit!" The wicked being gave an insane shriek, never tearing his wide, soulless eyes from Gandalf, before scrambling around the boulder. In the safety of the shadows, Gollum fled their sight, running away from them.

Gandalf stood still for a silent moment before sadly shaking his head. No longer could they detect the wiry form among the rocks. "He may in the end be ally rather than enemy, Frodo," he declared quietly. Though the words were without heat or disapproval, Frodo felt a blush of embarrassment crawl to his face. In truth, he was glad to finally be rid of Gollum's greasy, disquieting presence. Suddenly he cared not if that satisfaction stemmed from prejudice or hate, though that apathy brought him a sting of shame. Gollum had surely caused them all enough pain and trouble!

He had been silent in contemplation for a few moments, for when Gandalf's hand closed over his, he nearly jumped in surprise. He turned to behold the wizard, and then followed the ancient gaze. The old, weathered hand gently took the knife from his fingers. For a moment the wizard simply examined it. A pained expression came to Gandalf's face. Frodo lowered his gaze as the ache came again. He thought he had long grown accustomed to the sting of the loss, but now he felt it anew, like a piercing in his heart. He swallowed uncomfortably. "Legolas fell at Amon Hen."

The wizard did not speak, holding the blade in his palm. Its white beauty seemed so pure in the midst of the blackness. "I feared loss had come to the Fellowship. An Elf surrounded by shadow! This greatly grieves me."

They were silent a moment. Frodo felt a sob push its way up through his throat. Looking at that knife, knowing that Legolas had fallen because of his own failure, suddenly seemed so very heavy upon his soul. Had his wielding it in his defense been wrong because of the suffering he had brought to Legolas? "Take it, Gandalf," said Frodo quietly. He looked down, feeling horrible and guilty. "Take it to Aragorn. He deserves it more than I."

Gandalf said nothing, gazing at the Elvish knife in his hands. Then he released a slow breath that ruffled his beard. He looked up and smiled gently. The wisdom of his eyes eased Frodo's bleeding heart. "No, Frodo," he said tenderly. He took the Hobbit's hand and returned the long hilt to the palm. Then his warm, big fingers closed over Frodo's hand. "I think he would want  _you_  to have it."

Frodo smiled weakly. The words heartened him and wiped away a bit of his guilt. He gripped tightly the knife, appreciating its silent strength and protection. He was thankful anew for all Legolas had done for him. Gandalf then laid a hand upon his shoulder. "Be well, Frodo. That which separates friends shall no longer. Trust in Shadowfax; he knows the way!"

"I will," Frodo promised softly. His throat constricted and tears filled his eyes. "Will I see you again, Gandalf?"

Gandalf squeezed him and smiled. Mirth glowed in his eyes, and in that gaze, Frodo felt at ease. "Of course, my dear Frodo. All will be right in the end. There is much in Middle Earth beyond good and evil that governs the way of things. We again shall meet. Put your faith in that, my boy!" Frodo smiled weakly and nodded. "Now, go. Sam needs you."

The Hobbit drew a deep breath to calm himself. He watched as Gandalf affectionately patted Shadowfax and spoke quietly to the horse. The animal snorted and stepped lightly. Then the wizard offered Frodo one last smile. The Hobbit found faith in this new promise. He grabbed onto the reins of the mount and pressed his body tightly to Shadowfax's great neck. "Fly, Shadowfax!" he whispered. "Fly!"

The horse happily obliged, carrying him away from Gandalf and deeper into Mordor, closer, he knew, to Sam.

* * *

Arwen closed her eyes. All around her Lothlórien buzzed with activity. Elves rushed about, preparing for the battle that was evidently coming. It was early yet, there was much to do to ready the defense. In a few hours, the legion from Mirkwood would march east towards Gondor. Its lord was presently in private council with Celeborn; Arwen did not doubt they were sharing plans of strategy and defense. Such matters were of great importance, as were the means through which they might maintain communication. She could wait until their discussion was completed to ask Vardaithil her simple favor.

Tiredly she leaned against one of the old, wide trees of Caras Galadhon. There was a muted throb of noise all around, orders given and relayed, gossip and talk, the sound of many light feet falling quickly. She was lost to it in exhaustion. Since the council had concluded the evening before, her world had become a blur of action to which she was simply numb. The night had been long and trying; sleep had not come to her despite her weariness from traveling. Her mind had simply been too alive and aroused with thought. Much of the dark hours she had spent in mourning. Both her father and Glorfindel had attempted to comfort her, but she had respectfully turned away their condolences, opting instead for solitude. Her tears had been warm with bittersweet memories. When the grief had finally lifted a bit, worry immediately rushed into the vacancy, and no peace came to her. The morning sun had been a welcome end to the torturous night.

As the light of dawn had crept to the Golden Wood, a decision had come to her. Her father had been the first to hear of it. Elrond had been far from pleased with her choice. Though his eyes spoke volumes of his disapproval and worry, his lips did not. She was his daughter, but she was still of age; her choices were her own to make, and he would respect that. Glorfindel had been a bit harder to convince. After a rushed discussion, the Elf lord had conceded to her wishes, provided that he accompany her and her presence would not upset or interfere with the work of Vardaithil. It was the latter she was presently trying to confirm.

She waited, her body still, her heart heavy. The swirl of grief, anger, and fear inside her had grown no less powerful during the night. Memories of Legolas plagued her relentlessly, their sweet touches harsh to her sorrowing mind. Worry for Aragorn drove her from any rest, endless fears constantly denying her serenity. Arwen was frustrated and angry, and these feelings were not common to her. Much had happened since the Fellowship had left her father's council, and she had been there to prevent none of it. It had not been her place to accompany them, she knew, but the guilt and spite remained all the same. She did not count herself a particularly skilled fighter or healer, but her abilities were commendable. Still, no matter how much her heart had wished it, there had been no place for her among the Nine. Her passionate love for Aragorn would have hindered him. She doubted he would have had the clear head and unburdened thoughts to make correct decisions. Yet it was frustrating. Perhaps if she had gone, the horrible way of things might have been altered. In battle she might have offered her hand and been maybe a deciding factor to tip the odds in the favor of the Fellowship. Arwen did not know if these thoughts held any merit; berating oneself in hindsight over choices made never did anything but infuriate, for there was no way to answer these questions. She knew as well why she truly resented her estrangement from Aragorn. Her life had now been drastically altered. She had lost Legolas, her truest friend, and Aragorn faced uncertain peril alone. When the two had been together, she had worried less for she trusted them both immensely; one would never allow the destruction of the other. But Legolas, sweet, fair Legolas, was dead, and Aragorn's fate was frighteningly unclear. She sighed gently, trying to calm herself. She did indeed understand her motives, and they were purely selfish. She was silently furious that her family had been so violently and viciously ripped from her without her knowing, and she would not allow that to happen again.

There came footsteps from behind her, and she opened her bleary eyes. Arwen straightened herself and turned. Vardaithil approached, a lieutenant of his troops, who sported shining, gold plate, speaking to him quickly. The crown prince of Mirkwood seemed a bit distracted, but his deep blue eyes focused on her. She nodded respectfully, bowing her head. Vardaithil quickly finished his conversation with the Elf, bidding the other in some hushed order of preparation before the soldier skittered away. Then he turned to her. "My Lady," he began softly. His pale face looked weary, dark with fatigue and heartache. Still, it only served to make him appear more regal and powerful. The pride of his father and his position could never be denied. "You would do well with rest. The morning is yet young."

Arwen steeled herself. She could not deny that Vardaithil intimidated her. The Silvan Elf was impressive and influential. Scant times in the past had she visited the court of Thranduil, but what she knew much of the king that she found both awing and troubling. Much of Thranduil had been imprinted upon his oldest son. "I can find no peace," she admitted quietly, "but I thank you for your concern."

He nodded sadly. To her, he politely offered his arm. Arwen swallowed her hesitation and woe; so many times before had Legolas done the very same in escort during a stroll or to a dinner. It was not difficult to see the similarities between Vardaithil and his youngest brother. Together they bore the strength of their father in firm jaws and erect, proud postures. Eyes of deep blue looked to her, vigorous and expressive. She nodded her gratitude and slid her hand into the crook of his elbow.

They began to walk. Though around them rushed Elves of all sorts, they lingered in a lethargic, nervous world. Despite his potent presence, she felt his awkwardness as well. Idly she realized without a doubt this was an uncomfortable moment for him. Two Elves, united by only love for a common brother, brought together in that gentle being's death. A sad meeting if any! "I wish to apologize to you," he declared quietly, breaking a difficult silence. She narrowed her eyes upon his face as he gazed ahead blankly. "I recall now that my brother was a great friend to you. I am sure you think it a silly matter to forget and quite unbecoming of a prince as well as a sibling, and I will offer no excuse. Forgive me my lapse and the pain I have caused you."

She was surprised at his statement, but let none of shock reach her face. "It is no bother, my Lord. You as well are sick with grief. Mine must be small and trivial in comparison."

Vardaithil lowered his gaze to her. In his eyes she saw a storm of conflicting thought and mood. "I do doubt that, Undómiel, as much as I would like not to." The Elf sighed and drew to a stop on a footbridge. He stood stiffly. "There has been great dissonance in the House of Thranduil in years past. I scold myself now for letting it begin and continue as long as it did. If Legolas sought solace and comfort in your father's kingdom, then that only further indicates my failure to ease the tension between my brothers."

Waves of his pain struck her. Her heart ached for the disgust and anger she heard in the constricted tone. She knew little of what had happened in his father's court that had driven Legolas away. From the few times prior that she had met his other brothers, she had begun to understand a little more her friend's reasons. One of his twin brothers, Astaldogald, was particularly smothering and arrogant. She would be hard pressed to live with such an Elf for so long, and she considered herself rather pliant and complacent. Legolas had been gentle and loving, but his stubbornness and pride would never have permitted his views to be trampled and besmirched by his older sibling.  _Love for mortals. How this tore apart brothers! Love is not meant to do such!_ "It was no failure of yours," Arwen assured softly, silencing her dark and angry thoughts. "Legolas was no child. He made his own choices. I cannot say that I was not glad for his company."

"As was your beloved, I am sure." Arwen immediately stiffened, but she felt no reproach or heat in his flaccid tone. "Legolas' friendship with Elessar was perhaps the final wall to divide him from us. I do not fault him in his actions, but his companionship with a man was frowned upon by all, including my father. Mortals have never been friend to the Kingdom of Mirkwood." Arwen's eyes narrowed angrily and Vardaithil immediately lowered his gaze. "I do not say this to anger or upset you, my Lady. I see it in your eyes. You frown upon my father's house for its attitudes. I know not what has brought such dislike into your heart. I doubt Legolas would speak ill of our family, but he had always been an expressive Elf in posture and gaze. I apologize now for whatever false ideas he might have inadvertently imprinted upon you."

The words did not bode well with Arwen, but she did not press the matter further. It would do her well not to anger Vardaithil, else he might not consider her request. Shoving aside her disdain and steeling her composure, she spoke after a silent moment. "I shall tell why I sought you out this morning, my Lord."

"Yes?"

Arwen drew in a deep breath. "I know this is an unusual request, but understand that I have much pondered the matter. I wish to accompany you and your army to Gondor."

For a moment, Vardaithil did not speak, and Arwen did not have the courage to raise her gaze to meet his own. The fear of rejection lingered in the emptiness, and Arwen felt her resolve teeter. "Why, if I may ask?"

The truth, she decided, was her best course of action. "Aragorn might be in danger. I cannot in good conscience remain here," she said simply, praying he would not think folly of her reasoning.

"You ask me to escort you for love?" Vardaithil questioned. There was a hint of anger in his stern voice. "Surely you realize, Undómiel, that I cannot guarantee your safety!"

"I do not ask you to," answered Arwen quietly. Her firm eyes locked upon his. "My Lord, I stayed behind in Rivendell when the Nine Walkers set forth. I watched helplessly as my love and my friend left on a quest of unparalleled danger. One of them is gone. I cannot bear to lose the other. Please, I am begging you with all my heart. Allow my company."

Her statement seemed persuasive for Vardaithil closed his eyes. "And Lord Elrond's opinion of it?"

Arwen responded calmly, "My father is returning to Rivendell with permission of the Lord and Lady. There is little he can do here, and his people need him. I would be telling a falsehood if I said he approved of it, but he did agree to it." Her eyes became imploring. "My Lord, I will be no burden to you. My father's most trusted vassal, the Elf lord Glorfindel, will ride as my guard. He will protect me."

Vardaithil offered a weak smile that most surprised her. "Undómiel, I doubt you need protection at all. You are valiant as you are strong." Arwen felt her heart pulse with embarrassed pride, but she only returned his gesture, her face thankfully remaining pale. "I can make no promises, but I will allow you to ride with us. You have been truthful with me, so I will be likewise with you." His eyes grew a shade deeper and darker. "I care little for men. They have done my kingdom much damage, whether intentionally or not, and I cannot trust so easily again. I help you not for Elessar, for he has done nothing to gain my faith. You have been a good friend to my brother; this is clear to me. If escorting you to Gondor can repay the favor you have done the House of Thranduil in befriending Legolas, then I shall see it done."

She stared at him, conflicted by anger and gratitude. Though what he said regarding men irked her, she could not truly fault him for his thinking. This made it difficult to completely renounce his attitudes, even though she deeply wanted to. Her dazed, exhausted mind registered little beyond her emotions. Numbly she thanked him.

He nodded gravely, as if sensing her uneasiness. "We move soon."

"I understand," Arwen answered. "I will be ready."

Once more the uncomfortable silence descended. Vardaithil nodded finally, turned, and walked down the bridge. Squires and messengers that had been waiting for his attention now eagerly bombarded him with information and requests. Arwen watched him walk stiffly away, speaking to each in turn, a retinue of Elves in tow. She suddenly was thankful for the time he had afforded her.

"Arwen?"

She turned, knowing the deep voice to belong to Glorfindel. The Elf lord stood behind her, appraising her with concerned eyes. She sighed slowly and gave the other a weak smile. Glorfindel spoke quietly. "He agreed?"

"Yes," she answered, "but not for the reasons I wished. He believes doing me this favor will repay a shameful debt to Legolas." She returned her gaze to the retreating back of Vardaithil. "It amazes me, Glorfindel, that a family can differ so. Vardaithil aids us now because of orders from his father and unrequited guilt. He does not act out of compassion. I cannot imagine the same blood that is now so cold to mortals ran so warmly in Legolas," she whispered sadly.

Glorfindel stepped closer. She barely detected his approach. "You cannot change the way others think, little star. It is the limit of all life. We are each entitled to believe what we will, no matter how wrong or hurtful it might be to others. Wisdom oft brings frustration over ignorance." He laid a strong hand upon her shoulder. "Now, come. I have saddled Asfaloth for you."

She smiled weakly. "I should like for you to ride your own horse."

"It would be entirely unfitting for an Elf of my duty and stature to allow you to walk to Minas Tirith. I of course mean no disrespect, but the road is long, and you will hardly do Estel any good if you are exhausted."

She could not deny the logic of his words, though she disliked his smothering concern for her well being. Would they never learn to accept her choice? Too weary to argue the point, she simply nodded. Glorfindel smiled in triumph. "Let us go. There is much yet to do." He turned and began to walk.

Arwen again closed her eyes for a moment. The warmth of the dawn was coming over Lórien. For a moment she simply basked in it, letting the rays of the sun ease away her weariness. The peace was brief, but it was enough at least to bolster her resolve. She feared she would need all the strength she could muster, for there was much left to conquer, and grief and worry only harmed her valor. On her hope she must concentrate.

Vehemently she followed Glorfindel.

She would not again lose one she loved.


	19. Truth in Redemption

There were shadows everywhere, all around, but he would never again sink into them. He would never again know their sick ambitions, their cold caresses, and their silent violence. He would never again be slave to their malevolence. He had found his light, and his valor would keep him tightly bound to his new purpose. He would not falter.

These thoughts enveloped Boromir. They pounded upon his mind as his running feet did the forest floor. He knew them to be perhaps presumptuous, but he could not easily dissuade himself from sinking into their nobility and hope. In truth he found himself beginning to question. Though he had felt adamant in his quest, he wondered how he might actually fare once faced with the inevitable confrontation. It seemed so uncertain, and his mind was caught in an intense turmoil. No matter how much he sought to ignore it, his fear prodded constantly at his resolution. He did not know if he had the strength to do what was needed of him. He did not know if he could again best the demons within.

Nightfall had come quite heavily, and the forests of Minas Morgul seemed to grow blacker the closer he grew to Cirith Ungol. His feet followed a path east, chasing the stars as they peeked through the dense canopy of dark, leafless limbs. Though the road binding together Minas Tirith and Cirith Ungol was long eroded by times and abuse, he knew the way clearly enough. As the son of the Steward of Gondor, guarding the West against the spreading evil of Minas Morgul was a responsibility that often had brought him to these woods. Many a previous patrol had led his company through this maze, scouting for signs of rising monster or threat. The malevolence of Mordor had indeed poisoned the land, leaving it sick and dying. Boromir wondered how much more these old, great trees might have to suffer before they were again free to flourish.

He ran steadily. If his body was tired, he did not feel it. Driving him now was something greater than guilt or shame. No longer was he fueled by his need for acceptance. This had not disappeared but diminished to mere trifle concern. Legolas had, intentionally or not, given him a new purpose, and he was both grateful and alarmed by its appearance. He had bound himself to it without second thought. He did not know whether it would deliver him redemption. As he ran, though, he found it strange that he did not particularly care. Finding peace again was a selfish dream that he could not afford to possess. It could not be his priority. He began to realize that it truly made little difference if again Aragorn trusted him, or if once more he could wrestle with Merry and Pippin or enjoy a quiet, grateful glance with Frodo. If Legolas ever forgave him. These things were of course important, but they were shadowed by a larger truth. They meant little if he could never grant himself absolution. A pardon would not come easy if indeed it was coming at all, and he did not know if striving for such a thing would even grant him the strength he needed to succeed. It was better to hope for a simple victory, not for his own sake but for the sake of Sam and Frodo. For Legolas. For his kingdom. Facing Saruman meant unleashing a part himself that was huddled protectively under the allure of the Ring, a piece of his soul that was ill with greed and lust. Standing against the fiend he once was would be a daunting task, for now he was beginning to understand that that demon was not of the Ring's making. The desire to have power, even if it would have been used for good, had lived inside him before the Ring had touched his finger. The evil trinket had merely been the means to express that greed, and it had twisted him from man to monster, as it had so many in the past. A dangerous trap indeed! He knew that confronting Saruman would again breathe to life his smothered desires. Worry over it now chilled his heart and pained his mind. Still, this he intended to do. He could not hope for redemption when so much more was at stake than a simple peace of mind.

Even now he felt it. Though Boromir guarded himself with guilt and valor against the Ring's song, it still found its way into his heart, luring his spirit constantly into shadow, pushing at his consciousness with unrelenting hunger. It still enticed him, lurking under his thoughts, undermining his best intentions. Boromir doubted he would ever be rid of its lulling song, and it drained him in times of silence to keep its dominating whisper at bay. It was his curse. He knew that even if he should now stop Saruman, if he should somehow manage to steal this  _palantír_  of which Legolas had spoke, the Ring would not abandon him. As though fate sought to punish him for his ambition, the call had been imprinted upon him, staining his being as much as his crimes did his name. He was tarnished, tainted by the shadow. Again Legolas' words plagued him, enticing further guilt and sorrow.  _"I would have you follow your heart. It holds the greatest sway over your mind. Be it evil, you will do evil, and I cannot change that. It is the same for us all. You cannot absolve yourself. The weight of what we are and what we have done is to each of us our own curse."_  They compounded his skepticism, for he knew how true they were. He knew not the substance of his own heart. He thought perhaps once he had, before the Ring had ever come to his knowledge. Before he had been pure and noble, doing what he thought right for his people and never anything less. For his father he had been a strong son, taking upon him tasks the ailing steward could not himself handle. For his brother he had been a confident friend, a leader through dark times and frightening places. For his kingdom, he had once thought himself to be its hope. The Ring had taken away every shred of his dignity, butchering his pride and labeling him friend to the shadow and traitor to the light. He idly wondered how he could still lust for it.

Still, no matter how he turned and twisted his fears and worries, he could make no comfort come from them. Legolas was right, even though fever and despair had broken his mind into delirium. Boromir would do what he would when the moment came, who he was and what he had done driving him down one final road. Even though this brought the man great uncertainty and anxiousness, there was yet some reassurance. With Legolas he could not fully agree.  _Only_  he could absolve himself.  _Only_  he could make right what he had wronged. The mistakes he had made, the sickness of the Ring that he had inflicted upon himself, was indeed his own burden, his own curse. As it was his in making, it would be his in destroying. He knew not the mettle of his spirit nor the bend of his will, but his heart would not easily again succumb to the shadow. He allowed himself to have this hope. Perhaps the thought was naïve or foolish, but it was all he had left: this one wish to change the course of the future and the steady pounding of his running feet.

Ahead came a soft clamor, and Boromir slowed. He swallowed his pounding heart and tried to hold his racing breath as he listened. The night was quiet, but though the silence felt heavy, it could not cover the sound of feet upon the forest floor and the clank of armor. Not far walked quite a few beings, though the shadows frustratingly hid their location from his scanning glance. Boromir narrowed his eyes dangerously. His hand immediately strayed to the hilt of his sword.

"That is an ill move, my friend."

Boromir's heart nearly stopped in fright. The voice! He ripped around and gaped.

"Faramir!"

Indeed behind him stood his brother. For his own part, Faramir stared at him. As the moment dragged onward, the threatening gaze weakened in obvious amazement and disbelief, and the hand, which had clenched about the pommel of his weapon, relaxed. "Boromir…" he whispered weakly. To Fararmir's rear stood a small company of soldiers, who in incredulity were lowering bows and blades. Even in the poor light, Boromir knew them to be men of Gondor, the proud crest blazoned upon their chest plates. But he could afford them little attention, for the expression on his sibling's face most disturbed him. The elation and relief, which had weakened his heart and brought tears to his eyes, quickly faded.

Boromir stepped forward, his arms held open, his face broken in confusion. Faramir continued to regard him with wide, horrified eyes. His brother had always had a pale countenance, but it seemed all the color had completely drained from his skin, leaving him quite ashen. He had always thought Faramir had inherited their mother's peaceful features, for his face was kind and gentle with eyes that were slow to ignite in anger and a lax jaw that rarely tightened lined in a light, brown beard. They stood at equal height, divided by a fateful task, reunited perhaps by happenstance. "What ails you, brother?" Boromir asked quietly, too unnerved to remain silent any longer. How he longed to rush forward and envelope Faramir in a hearty hug! Yet his uneasiness kept his heart and body still. "You are pale as though you have seen a ghost!"

Faramir's ashen lips barely moved. "I may have," he gasped, shaking his head, "for it was said that you were slain!"

Shock coursed through Boromir, planting his feet firmly into the ground. He felt confusion muddle his already torn and rattled mind. "Slain?" he repeated incredulously. His eyes glazed in distant thought. Questions he could not answer plowed over him, nagging at his concentration. One slipped from numbed lips. "Who spoke such?"

"I know not," answered Faramir softly, stepping closer to his brother. Boromir focused upon him, watching with stunned eyes as Faramir tentatively reached forward. The silence lingered as the two stood, each numb with relief and confusion. Finally Faramir grasped Boromir's hand, and his face broke its tense expression. "Ai, you are no figment! I thought mayhap my eyes were playing a foul trick as penance for exhaustion, but they do not! Boromir!" With that, Faramir wrapped his arms around him.

Boromir gasped and his trepidation melted. Without reservation he returned the warm embrace, feeling tears burn his eyes. His heart swelled with love and relief. Never had he thought to meet his brother here! Such a joyous and surprising gift! He squeezed Faramir tightly, and in doing such, many wonderful memories of childhood and home slipped through his dazed head. "I have missed you," he whispered softly into the other's shoulder.

Faramir pulled away with a gasp. A smile lit his face, a sloppy grin that reminded him of so many jokes and laughs shared in the past. "And I you, my dear brother! Tell me, where have you gone? What have you done? We received but a message that you have left with group in Rivendell, a Fellowship, I believe they called it. Naught else we heard! You must speak of it all!"

Boromir winced. His heart clenched painfully, turning his relief murky with grimy guilt. It seemed so wrong for Faramir to blindly accept him. He knew the other could not have been aware of his descent into evil at the hands of the Ring. Still, anything he wished to say of the Fellowship seemed tainted by his crimes. He yearned not to lie anymore, especially to his beloved brother. "The quest did not go well," he admitted after an endless moment of silence. "We met great peril."

Faramir's face then became somber. "Then it is true," he whispered despondently.

A frantic pain sliced through Boromir's remorseful, awkward haze. "Of what do you speak?" he asked quickly, watching his brother with imploring eyes.

Faramir seemed a bit hesitant, as though what he had to reveal was dark and distressing. His anxiety served to only further unnerve Boromir. "It is rumored that a great, foul evil glowers in the east. A black heat billows from Mount Doom, and the dark forces are rising." Boromir blanched. Worry and fear suddenly turned his senses dizzy and his stomach queasy. "From Rohan came a rider. I never had the chance to meet him, but Father took his warning to heart. This man spoke of the threat from Mordor. There seems to be a new alliance between the Deceiver and the Firstborn."

For a moment, Boromir could not understand what he had been told. His mind reeled in utter stupefaction, spinning in a desperate attempt to make sense of the words. "Betrayal by the Elves?" he said softly. The words felt bitter and rotten coming from his lips.

"That is what he said. Yet more did he tell of a battle at Isengard where man turned on man." Faramir's eyes clouded in sadness and perplexity. "He spoke of your death, at the hands of the heir of Isildur."

Boromir snapped from his musings. His eyes glinted hardly as he looked to his brother sternly. "That is a lie!" he snapped coldly. He could not describe the ache inside him inflicted by the statement. It was as though the accusation were directed at him and not Aragorn. It throbbed with a pain he did not often feel. It was more than shame, more than anger. It was the blood of a friendship torn. He felt it cover his hands, thick and hot, and he knew it would be hard to ever cleanse himself of it.

He realized Faramir was staring at him, a question poised on his lips and alarm in his eyes. "And Father believed this… informer?"

"Not wholly," Faramir explained. "It was not something he could simply brush aside, though. I know little of what happened, for Father sent me here to judge to state of Mordor shortly after he received the warning. I do know that he intended to arrest the heir of Isildur upon his arrival in Gondor." Boromir blanched. He felt as though he had been struck in the stomach. "Certainly by now he has been jailed. I do not know whether or not Father ordered him executed."

"Surely not!" Boromir gasped. His voice was little more than an astonished, terrified whisper.

Faramir shook his head. "I do not know. Do not fault him, brother! A great mourning went over the White City. We were all torn with grief!" A long, empty moment passed, sadistically dragging out the painful discovery. Boromir felt numb, lost in despair. Once he might have been able to brush aside such news. Once his spite and anger towards Aragorn had shielded him. He was no longer so blind or so hateful.

Faramir smiled again, though this time the gesture seemed weaker and a bit uncertain. He clasped Boromir on the shoulder firmly. "But all is well now, for you are safe. Father will be overjoyed to see you return to Minas Tirith!"

Boromir shook his head vehemently. "Nay, Faramir, naught is well. I cannot return with you."

A gasp went through the other men. Faramir's eyes clouded in worry and confusion. "Why ever not? I am certain that when we arrive this matter can be fixed. The heir of Isildur will surely be released if there is indeed no crime of his fault!"

"I cannot!" Boromir gasped. The haze of fear and despair began to fade, and his objective again emerged. His gripped his brother's shoulders strongly, gazing directly into the other's bewildered eyes, ans spoke quickly. "You must ride home to Father, Faramir! You must tell him that Aragorn is not to blame for what has happened! I am!"

The other's face cracked in hurt and frustration. "You are? I do not understand!"

"There is no time to explain," Boromir answered, feeling panic begin to coil in his stomach. His guilt and shame reached a peak inside him, pushing him forward in his words. He wanted nothing less than to appear weak before his brother, than to smear his pride and dignity before the one who did not yet know the truth, than to himself condemn what he had done. But he had no other choice. His heart bled and ached, but he could not allow his dislike of Aragorn to any longer jeopardize everything he held dear! "You must do this. Father must step down and allow Aragorn to lead Gondor!"

Now anger flashed in Faramir's gaze. His eyes burned in aggravated confusion. "Are you daft, brother? Father abdicate the throne? You talk of madness!"

"It is no madness!" Boromir shouted, feeling his own patience dwindle. It gnawed at him inside to argue with his sibling, but time and fate had left him no other option. "Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Elendil and Isildur, must now lead us! I know it seems queer and crazy, but you need to see the truth! The Elves are no threat to us! If we break ties with them now, all will come to ruin!"

"You must see, Boromir, the danger in trusting blindly! If we turn our backs, the witch of Lórien will call to her vile powers with which we cannot contend! The Elves of the Golden Wood will attack us. With Mordor to the east and Lórien to the west, we will be crushed!" Faramir lowered his voice, but his eyes were alive with concern and anger. "There are reports of an army of woodland Elves marching south. What business have they amongst us?"

Boromir closed his eyes. So much pressed upon him, and he was growing weary from its endless bombardment. "I cannot say, but I do know that they mean us no harm. In the Fellowship was an Elf of great heart and strength. He was representative of his kind. The sacrifice he made to Middle Earth is immeasurable! There is little sense in deceit following forfeit!" Faramir opened his mouth to object, but Boromir released a slow breath and gripped his brother harder. "Please, Faramir, I do not say these things lightly. If this is a madness that drives me, it is one of my own making. There is little time, and should we stand divided when the dark forces attack, we will stand no chance. I ask you as your commander, your brother, and your friend to do me this favor. Return home on swift feet and bade Father to release Aragorn! I fear he alone can protect the kingdom of men now!"

Quiet. It was filled with nothing but harsh breathing. Faramir still did not seem overly convinced by Boromir's argument, his face broken in hesitation. Clearly he was torn. It was to be expected, for his brother had requested of him to rush home only to tell their father, whose family had for many years ruled Minas Tirith, that he must now relinquish the throne. Boromir could not fault him for his indecision; this was no simple task! "If you will not trust Aragorn, then trust me. I have never before led you astray."

These final words ended the conflict. Faramir released a slow breath and nodded gravely. "I have never doubted you, brother. I will not now, no matter how much of this disaster you claim is of your creation. I will do as you say," he declared quietly, his voice reluctant but otherwise agreeing.

Boromir thought he might collapse from relief. Tiredly he closed his eyes. It had taken a great deal of his will to finally admit that perhaps Aragorn could succeed where he had failed. "Thank you, my dear brother."

"Father will not be pleased."

Boromir sighed and looked to Faramir once more. He sadly answered, "I know. Tell him that I apologize, as well. I have done him a great disservice. I pray he may never come to know of it." The pain was becoming great, and he looked away to hide the tears building in his eyes. It was but a small price to pay for the greater good of all. "Now, go! Please let nothing stop you!"

Faramir lingered a moment, as if caught in a strange moment of understanding. They locked eyes once more, sharing a look of unspoken grief and unaccepted parting. It was a chance meeting, perhaps, but fate had clashed, and a moment of healing passed. Apology was offered and received. It held an unwanted finality.

Then Faramir grinned weakly, as though uncomfortable in the sorrowful silence and ignorant of the greater war raging behind the clarity of his brother's eyes. "Until we meet again, Boromir!" he declared.

Boromir jabbed his teeth into his lower lip to prevent its quivering. He nodded, having no voice to reply and not trusting his words to hide his despair. Faramir shared with him one last proud, affectionate glance. Apparently not even the worst admittance of guilt could tarnish his brother's opinion of him!

Then Faramir turned to his men. He barked an order, and they disappeared into the shadows of the woods.

Boromir watched them depart, and then stared blankly into the shadows. His brother's laugh, those innocent, loving eyes, clung to his heart, and he simply felt for a while. The rush of memories was as painful as it was beautiful. He cherished them as they passed through his pained mind once more. As quick as the burst came, it was gone, and he could imagine Faramir's face no longer. A cold tear escaped his eye and trickled down his face.

The shadows became too strong, and he looked away. Then again he ran. Deep inside he knew nothing would stop Faramir in the task he had laid upon him, and that brought Boromir relief. If Aragorn was freed, perhaps they yet had a chance. He let his mind abandon thoughts of Gondor. He had done what he had wanted; he had given Aragorn the chance to protect his people. It was no longer his concern.

He had passed his first trial.

* * *

Cirith Ungol was a horrible place. It was a great black tower flanked by forbidding mountains that stabbed into the sky. Once it had been magnificent, strong and impermeable to weather, time, and evil. Forever guarding the dangers of Mordor, it had stood at the gate to the dark lands, the diligent soldier that never ended its watch. When Sauron had claimed it for his own, its beautiful white stone had turned foul and dark, its majesty twisted into an instrument of wickedness. Now it was a dreary landmark, rising to the stars like a knife seeking to stab the peaceful sky simply because of its beauty. The cold aura of evil radiated from it like heat from a fire.

Boromir steeled himself. He gritted his teeth and tensed his body. He could not deny his fear. This was a stronghold of Sauron, a place where few dared to tread. It invoked dread in many, for it was terribly close to Gondor. As a precaution, his father often sent out scouting parties into Minas Morgul to gauge the situation of the area and the mood of the woods. Very rarely did they travel so deeply into the forest. Here the trees were dead, twisted and bent beyond recognition. They seemed an army of lost spirits that had valiantly died and locked limbs together to form a blockade, warding away innocents from this nest of evil. Boromir imagined that the souls of men lost resided in these old soldiers, still protective even in death. The blood of Gondor was not easy to defeat.

He walked now, having lost both the strength and the courage to run. All around him the land seemed to leer, reaching out with wisps of the fog of early dawn to seductively caress him and pull him into their vile embrace. As though he were little more than a matter of prey inadvertently wandering into the lair of the predator, they pushed him along gently, coaxing him forward to what could inevitably be his doom. Boromir narrowed his eyes and concentrated on what he must do. He would not allow the dreary woods to defeat him so early.

His mind raced, though his face was impassive and his steps were steady. He knew little of Cirith Ungol. It was a winding tower, constructed to be strong against invasion. He doubted that had changed over time. His limited knowledge of the place would do him little good, and he knew more than simple Orcs guarded its entrances and vulnerabilities. He would stand no chance in attacking it. Ignorance would become blindness, and he could not juggle both the unfamiliar surroundings and besting whatever demons lie in wait. Assault was simply not an option.

He swallowed his panic as he approached the black gates. What then could he do? He ran over the problem again and again, desperately seeking some sort of solution. When nothing came to him, he began to grow fearful. He could not just simply march into Cirith Ungol, stare Saruman in the eye, and demand the wizard turn over the  _palantír_! Such foolery! He must have some sort of plan! As he thought, though, the strangest idea came to him. It seemed so utterly outrageous that at first he simply dismissed it. When the moment wore on and he tried to conjure up some other means of success, it continued to return to him, poking at his conscious until again he had to consider it.

 _No. I cannot. I will not!_ It was too difficult to simply cast the notion aside, even though he hated it and its implications. He shook inside in fear and uncertainty as he pondered it. He would obviously never be able to either slip inconspicuously into Cirith Ungol or defeat its innumerable guards. Perhaps the best course of action would be to indeed simply walk inside. He could again make an alliance with the dark forces. However, it would be just a façade, a rouse to permit his entrance. Would Saruman be fooled by this? He did not know. The Istar was frighteningly cunning and wise; Boromir doubted he could long deceive him, if he might at all. The idea began to take greater shape. Simple lies would not be enough to create the illusion of evil; Saruman and the Eye would undoubtedly see through to his heart. He would have to again succumb to the Ring.

His mind became numb and he stopped. The implications were dreadful, and he despised the idea more with each passing moment. If he again let himself go in the fire of the lusty song, he might not again be able to tear away. The desire coiled in his heart in anticipation, eating at his resolve, and he wondered if there might not be some other way. He knew that releasing himself to his desire could inevitably lead to his downfall. He never again wanted to be slave to the shadow, to be locked in that cage of his own making and watch as his body did wrong and evil. But the more he thought on the matter, the more clearly did this undeniable truth appear. This was his only choice. He would have to again don desire for the Ring and guise himself in corruption. When the moment came, he would somehow pull himself away. Again he would become a traitor. This time it was Saruman he would betray.

Boromir tried not to think more of it. Many questions and concerns were left that he could not answer, and he was terrified. He walked again, wavering somewhat, but quickly regaining his strength. In his heart he found his anger and focused upon it. Saruman had done much to destroy Middle Earth. Many had died at Helm's Deep. Many more were likely to perish in the coming battles. The fallen Istar had twisted light into shade and beauty into sickness. He had poisoned Isengard. He was making possible the tracking of Sam. He had beaten Legolas, tortured him, and rendered him into something less than what he had been. The wizard must pay! Upon these vengeful thoughts he concentrated, and the rage gave him strength. In its fire the worries and fears melted. He would stop Saruman.

The rage became hate. The hate grew to lust. Lust for power. Greed for the Ring. The song rose inside him, gleefully seeking to dominate once more his mind, and he did not fight. Closing his eyes, he let his body fall freely into the flames. In memory he felt the Ring in his hand, saw its sleek beauty glinting in the sunlight, its raw power lulling his eyes and teasing his heart with a lover's caress. He knew again the satisfaction of Frodo's defeat and Legolas' fear. The vile hatred of Aragorn, the wretched bide for control, took his heart. Into the cage he thrust his shaking conscience. This was his curse, and he would use it.

Darkly he stalked on a beaten path to the tower. There were eyes all around, suspiciously watching his every move, but he brushed them aside. They were of little concern. Every muscle in his body was tense with longing and anger. At the massive, dark doors that blocked the entrance stood two Nazgûl, sheathed in shadow. Their swords were drawn, glimmering in the weak light of the rising, gray sun, and these were stabbed into the barren ground. Claws rested upon the hilts, nonchalantly declaring to any that sought to pass that death would came rapidly and painlessly should deception be seen.

He did not falter, fearlessly marching by them. They made no move, stiff as statues, allowing his entrance. Foolish demons.

The place smelled foul, of rotting flesh and dank mildew. Boromir narrowed his eyes. Before him was a great hall. Once perhaps it might have been festooned with great tapestries depicting the glory of Gondor. Now it was littered with dust, cobwebs, and the remains of long dead soldiers. The morning light barely crept inside, the beams that did penetrate illuminating only floating dust and barely strong enough to pierce the shadows on opposite walls. Doors marked the hall on both the left and right, stretching perhaps twenty feet before they disappeared. At its end was a massive, winding staircase.

There was a grunt and the sound of dragging feet. From the shadows emerged a small, bent creature of slimy flesh and beady eyes. The Orc offered a weak and slightly apprehensive grin. The sight was hideous. "Lord Saruman will be most happy at your return," it declared in a raspy, nasal tone.

Boromir was slightly surprised that the Orc remembered him, but let nothing pierce his angry visage. "Indeed. Take me to him."

The Orc nodded before shuffling ahead quickly. Boromir followed it as it ascended the winding staircase. Torches were periodically hung on the stone walls, casting orange light over their path of weathered steps. Every so often they passed a narrow window and Boromir glanced outside. As they rose, the lands of Mordor became visible, gray and rocky in the dawn. So very distant was the red heat of Mount Doom scorching the eastern sky. He wondered where the Ring might be. Somewhere in those black lands Sam carried it, seeking to destroy its simple glory and end the man's dreams. He hated that Hobbit then and wished him peril. The Ring should have come to him!

It took a great deal of his untainted will to keep his mind directed upon his goal here. The Ring's press upon him was growing stronger with each step, and he wanted nothing more than to flee this silly quest and charge into Mordor himself. Perhaps he might find Sam and acquire the Ring again. The dream was utterly delicious. Yet his nagging duty kept him bound to this matter in Cirith Ungol. Boromir remembered Saruman's seething words so many days past when he had fled Isengard. The wizard now deserved retribution.

Finally they reached the pinnacle. The Orc skittered up the last stairs, leading him to an open, circular area. Here four pillars upheld the dark ceiling high above their heads, the blackness hiding its features. Between the corners was nothing but open air, the perfect vantage. It overlooked Mordor to the east and Minas Tirith to the west.

Gray light spilled into the room. Seated at its center at the head of a long table was Saruman. The white wizard's eyes were closed in meditation, his hands resting idly on the oak. Spread across the table were parchments and papers. "My Lord," said the Orc, "he has come."

"So I see," responded Saruman. Then it became silent. Boromir stood stiffly, regarding the wizard with a burning glare. "You are late in rejoining us, son of Denethor. I assume your search for your lost nobility yielded nothing."

Boromir narrowed his gaze and clenched his fists. "They rejected me," he answered coolly. He was surprised at the truth in both the statement and the spite he found lacing the tone.

"And now you look to the shadow, seeking acceptance and comfort here?" Saruman chuckled quietly, his deep voice rumbling powerfully. "Men are such fickle creatures!"

The insult irked him, but he did not allow his rage to overcome him. "I have come, my Lord, to offer my aid and nothing else," he stated simply. The furious desire for the Ring tainted his words and gave him strength.

Saruman stood slowly. The white of his robes made him glow in the waning shadows. "Is that so?" he asked, a doubting note upon his words. His voice dripped with sarcasm and reproach. "And how would you propose to help me?"

"I can offer you the allegiance of Gondor when the time comes."

Saruman laughed. The depthless, piercing eyes grew hard. "You offer me nothing, son of Denethor. I have already secured said loyalty," he announced smugly.

Boromir never wavered in his glare. His eyes bored into Saruman's. "Presumptuous," declared he, with a tone of equal arrogance and strength. "I know little of wizards, but it is said that you are both the wisest and the most potent. I find it laughable that you would make such a foolish assumption! Perhaps you have grown lazy as your plans have borne you victory?"

"Silence!" Saruman shouted. Unspeakable power crackled along his taut form. His eyes were burning in threat. They stared at each other for a long moment, each powerful and intimidating. That which bound them was the same sick obsession. The lust for the Ring gave them both their strength. Finally Saruman turned away, his body once again calm. "I will hear you out, son of Denethor. Know that I have already sent a spy to Minas Tirith. He has guised himself as an innocent informer from Rohan, bearing words of warning to both stop Isildur's wretched heir from taking the throne and to turn Gondor against the Elves. The Last Alliance will surely falter."

Boromir now understood much of what his brother had told him. The lies about his murder, the distrust of the Elves… Saruman had planted the seeds of dissent in his father's court. Yet of this revelation he spoke not. "Your spy will fail, Saruman. My father does not trust easily."

Saruman watched him keenly a moment. Boromir stood erect, letting no emotion save anger and lust come to his eyes. Then the wizard sighed, almost tiredly, and sank back into his chair. He seemed weary and ancient. It was a strange thing to see, this most powerful of the Istari appearing as worn, frustrated, and exhausted as any mortal. "I fear you may be right. Wormtongue has proven himself a greater burden than aid. He is too driven by his own greed. Only recently have I received note from him that he intends to drive to Lórien and take for himself the ring Nenya." Boromir's brow furrowed in confusion. "Such sudden gall for one so cowardly! Though I would much revel in the destruction of the wretched Golden Wood, now is simply not the time. There are greater concerns. Should man betray Elf, Lórien would inevitably fall." Saruman gave a whimsical, crooked grin. "Greed breeds little patience."

Confused, Boromir regarded the wizard in annoyance. Still, this matter was of little concern. "Even you know his actions to be inadequate," he surmised quietly.

Saruman's dark gaze focused upon him. Though the glare was venomous, Boromir refused to falter beneath its assault. "If he has shirked his greater responsibilities, he will in the end meet his punishment." The wizard gently tapped the arms of his great chair with his long nails. The clicking noise was most loud and infuriating in the silence. "You have made your point, son of Denethor. Tell me what you might do to remedy the issue."

Gleeful euphoria passed over the man at his won opportunity, but his face remained taut and impassive. "I will ride to Minas Tirith and succeed where your spy did not. I have long held my father's absolute trust on matters of state. He will listen to me."

"And if he does not?"

A small smile crept to Boromir's pale face. "Then I will kill him." Saruman's eyes seemed doubtful. The lies flowed too easily from the man's lips. "My father has too long ruled Gondor with a hesitant hand. He is weak and lacks ambition. The kingdom has wasted under his indecision! I can better bring men to glory!" An insane giggle filled the air. "I would rise to power. I will crush the Elves. This I will do for you!"

Saruman appraised him with distrustful eyes. "I doubt your words," he simply declared.

The pain welled up inside him. Inside the cage his heart screamed and bellowed. These murderous words! Ai, how they hurt him! More excruciating still was the joy he felt inside him at their utterance. The greed, the mad lust for power, wielded his body again through the call of the Ring. The crying of his heart became shrill.  _Do not falter! Do not fail!_ "You are a fool. It is the leadership of Gondor that has driven me in all I have done. Why now would I abandon it? Why would I betray my friends and my pride only to now relinquish this dream? My father means little to me; he disgraces the blood of Ecthelion!"

Boromir lingered in the moment, waiting for Saruman's decision, struggling to simply breathe. Would the wizard now see through his illusion? Would the Ring's guise prove too easily discarded? Perhaps the desire had indeed been weakened by the valor of his heart! He prayed the evil within him was still strong enough to protect him.

Finally Saruman nodded. Tensing his knees was all Boromir could do to remain on his feet. He swallowed his relieved sigh. "I assume you do not do this without regard to reward. What would you ask of me?"

This was his chance. He must be careful in his words! "Little beyond a chance to reclaim what I have lost. You must have means to track the Ring. I have heard of a seeing stone, a  _palantír_."

"You wish to find the Ring yourself," Saruman declared evenly. He raised an eyebrow. "You would have me give you the  _palantír_."

Boromir nodded firmly, never lowering his gaze. "I do not ask to deceive you. Surely you see the logic in my request! I know the Hobbit that carries the Ring. For weeks I traveled with him, studying his moves and his thoughts. I am a valuable asset to your search."

The tapping continued. "And what would you do with the Ring?"

A slow smile twisted Boromir's face. "I do not deny that my heart greatly yearns for it. Yet, I will present to you a covenant of sorts. Allow me to find the Ring and in return I will assure your victory."

"It does not belong to you, son of Denethor."

Boromir stiffened. His anger forced the words from his mouth. "No more than it belongs to you." The wizard glared at him icily, but he charged on. The words resounded in his head. His own hateful demands.  _It could have been mine! It should be mine!_ "You cannot lie to me, Saruman! The same lust is in my blood! The same desire steals my sleep and riddles my heart with longing! You will take the Ring when you find it!"

Saruman rose from his chair. His small, aged figure was tight with menace. Anger like lightning flashed through his eyes. "You would dare question my loyalty to Sauron?" he hissed dangerously.

"Loyalty?" laughed Boromir. "There are no allies in greed."

There was silence for a moment. Then Saruman's rage seemed to abate. The wizard's mottled, pale face grew lax, and he sank back into his chair. "Strange indeed," he mused, staring at Boromir as though the man were a spectacle of interest. "The Elf said the very same."

Boromir's heart stopped. His blood turned to ice water. He could not breathe. Had he gone too far? He hurt inside, his caged spirit throbbing. Did the evil ever see the truth in their wicked ways? He could say nothing, not knowing what might erase the damning words. Saruman seemed amused at his silence. The clacking of his nails resumed. "I will grant your request, Boromir. Take the _palantír_. Try to find the Ring."

He could scarce believe what he had heard. Still, he let none of his relief and joy touch his face. The wizard reached into his white robes. From their flowing folds he produced a small globe. It rested in his palm, glowing innocently. Within it swirled the deepest purples and blues. The motion of the colors seemed powerful and lulling. Boromir stared at it in awe and longing. This small, pretty trinket could show him the Ring? It seemed so insignificant!

"I expect your allegiance when the time comes," declared Saruman as he offered the  _palantír_  to Boromir. The man accepted it slowly, numb with excitement and rapture. It felt cool in his hands. Its promise seemed incredible, rushing through his body and leaving him breathless and tingling. "Go now."

The world crashed down on Boromir. The controlling will of the Ring snapped, and his heart screamed.  _Run! Waste no time!_ He bowed briefly and stiffly. His fear and shock was enough to keep the smile from his face. He turned then and walked away, neither man nor monster trusting itself enough to keep hidden its agenda. He stepped past the Orc, cradling the  _palantír_  against his chest. Quickly he descended the steps. His feet pounded against the stairs. His heart was racing. The silence was thick and smothering. His rushed breath was so very loud.

He flew down the tower. Inside the great hall he thundered, resisting the urge to sprint away with his hands clenched tightly about his prize. There were the opened doors. He stepped past them. The gray light had grown brighter, the shadows shrinking away from the sun. The Nazgûl remained motionless as he walked by. Pebbles crunched under his boots as he traversed the path. His senses were alive in tense nervousness. His heart boomed painfully in his chest. At any moment he expected an attack. When none came, he felt a strange smile come to his face. Surely it could not be this easy!

Nothing stopped him. He walked speedily in a numb daze, confused by the simplicity of what had just happened and overwhelmed by his success. Only when he again was deep in the forests did he let out an amazed laugh.

The trees seemed lighter now. The dull morning brought to them a bit of color. The forest was still and apprehensive, though. No peace came to it with the dawn. The air seemed tense and cold, stealing away absolution and hope. Boromir walked steadily, grasping the  _palantír_  tightly. His eyes he directed ahead. The path through the maze of angry trees was marked with haze and mist, and he worried he might now lose himself. His mind was in a different place. His heart felt trapped. The globe pressed to his palm taunted sweetly, and the song of the Ring sung a harmony to its call. Oh, how he wanted to look down upon it! It could show him the Ring. It could bring him power and privilege. He could again satiate his hunger!  _And why should I not? Why should I deny myself this? It is mine, after all! It belongs to me!_

His thoughts terrified him. His spirit was beating against the cage, hollering a denial, a plea to again disengage himself from the lust that he had embraced to do what was needed of him. Horror drove his heart into a slamming fury and his feet into a panicked run. The call grew ever stronger, ever louder, deafening him. Consuming him. This was his curse truly! To come so far only to now fall!

It would not release him.

He ran and ran, pushing his body beyond all of its limits, but he could not elude the shadow. It chased him relentlessly, pursuing him with fervor borne his renewed embrace of the Ring. It sought to devour him, to capture him again in its suffocating embrace. The cage door had not swung open. He fought against it, against this driving greed and sweet allure, but he could not win. He could not escape!

Boromir released a choked sob and sank to his knees. The world was spinning. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain and nausea. In his mind the Ring screamed and shouted, driving away his own control, crushing his sanity in its feral teeth. The  _palantír_  fell from his shaking fingers when he pressed his hands over his ears, as if that simple action could somehow erase the chilling song within him. He could not fight this! He did not have the strength! The want was simply too strong. Would his own weakness again be his downfall?

There would be no rest until he looked. There would never be serenity until he fulfilled this desire. What harm could come of it? It made little difference! For weeks he had grappled with the weight of his crimes, of the Ring's demands. For an eternity, it seemed, he had fought to maintain the façade of nobility. Who would know of this moment of defeat? Who would it hurt?

What sick reasoning! Yet he had not the will to deny. He had no strength to fight himself. This final submission would be the most damning.

Trembling hands cupped the  _palantír_. His eyes came open with a gasp and quickly they looked, peering into the mesh of deep hues intently. The madness drove him; his spirit shriveled. He had failed.

For a moment there was nothing but an eerie silence punctuated by his own gasping. Then there came a vision, splitting the wall of midnight within the smooth globe, and he watched. It was a sight of fire, of rage, of death. He winced as the heat scorched his face. The Eye glared at him with such intensity that he cried out. The great lidless watcher peered into his soul, prodding about the limp and spirit in search of the truth. Then came a flash of searing warmth and blinding light, and the  _palantír_  showed him what he sought.

At first he could make little sense of it. It was a pile of rocks, a collection of debris upon the gray grounds of Mordor. There was shrieking in the distance. Minas Morgul was silent, and Boromir realized the shrill screams came from within the globe. Shivers ran down his back.  _Nazgûl_. He peered closer. Something was beneath the wreckage. He saw a bit of green cloth, a spot of skin. A glint of gold. With a horrific slap, the realization struck him.  _Sam…_  And clenched in the small, injured Hobbit's hand was the Ring.

Boromir shrieked. The Ring grabbed his attention eagerly and would not release it. There was blood on the limp fingers. He wanted to glance elsewhere, to perhaps see if Sam was alive, but the greedy Ring dominated his own will, and his treacherous eyes had not the strength to look away. Was this the plight he had caused? Oh, but for all the want of his heart did he wish this not to be so! Finally he had found his precious trinket. The price for it was great indeed!

For the first time he regretted ever holding the Ring.

Tears rolled down his face unbidden. There was a laughing, a hurtful chuckle of sadistic hilarity.  _This is what you have caused. This is what you have done for the sake of your own greed! Is this what you wanted? How very many lives you have destroyed! So many left to pillage! This is what loving the Ring is! Look, now! Look and see the monster you have become!_

Boromir closed his eyes. The Ring sang to him like never before. Where once the melody was enticing, it was now a vicious jab, a sneering gloat. This was not who he was!  _Ah, but it is! You have dreamed of power, of the glory of Gondor restored. Everything that has happened stemmed from that dream. You were not meant to rule! You were not meant to live now! You were not meant to bear the One!_

"I will destroy you," hissed the man, gritting his teeth. His entire being shook in terror.

The laughter came again. Above the sick chanting of the dark Ring, it reverberated through his skull. It sounded sickly like Saruman.  _Would you, now? Would you renounce this dream? In doing so, you would renounce your existence!_

He took a deep breath against the bile in his throat. "It is an existence not meant to be."

_Fool! I see into your heart. You sought to trick, but the Eye knows all. You will again embrace the shadow! You will again be one with the dark forces! Your love of yourself will never allow you to change! You need this stone to find the Ring. You must find the Ring! You are a slave to its power!_

" _No!_ "

The rage exploded within him. He moved without thinking. The blade of Gondor came free from its sheath as he scrambled to his feet. With a howl of defiance, he slammed the sword down. The flat edge smashed against the  _palantír_. The innocent globe shattered with a bang under the force, spraying shards of glass in an explosion.

A long time passed before Boromir again could feel or think. Breathing was a strenuous activity, and he struggled to simply draw in air. He gazed blankly on the mess of broken glass upon the forest floor. Was it real? Had he truly done it?

His racing heart slowed and his exhausted body dropped to the ground. Feeling slowly came to him. The blade in his clenched hand. The cold ground beneath him. The chilly air around him. The light of the sun. He sat, his eyes burning with tears, his breathing charging the air. There was nothing but the simple mess of glass. He had cut the ties. He had defeated the demon within. He wept in joy. In his mind there was naught but silence. He was free!

Boromir could scarcely believe it. His heart pumped now in overwhelming elation, and he sobbed with near violent intensity. The  _palantír_  had offered him the means to find the Ring, and he had destroyed it.  _He had overcome!_ Victory at last! He gasped through his tears, feeling as though he might just simply collapse into worn dreams. Triumph seemed too unreal, too amazing.

He lay there for a long time, simply breathing. It was all he could do. His wearied and abused mind wandered like a caged bird finally released, and he thought of many things. Of Gondor he dreamed, standing tall and proud against the onslaught of shadow. He remembered words shared with Faramir, recalled the painful finality of their parting. He had survived what he had intended to do. Perhaps he might again meet his brother. He thought of his wise father leading the world of men to victory. Aragorn. Gimli. Merry and Pippin. Were they safe? He prayed they had strength left to fight. Sam and Frodo. Tears came to his eyes, but the shame now was not pounding his soul. He could accept it. Freedom had afforded him that ability. He could not change the past, but he had made better the future. Legolas.  _Legolas._

He sat up quickly. Terror rushed back into his dazed mind, snapping worry and concern back into place. Panic jolted him, and he jumped to his feet. He had left Legolas sick and alone in this dangerous place. He had promised to return. He snatched up his sword and slid it back into his sheath. His boots thundered on the ground, over the mess of glass, grinding the shards to dust. Without another thought, he ran.

* * *

It was not long past noon the following day when Boromir returned to the place he had left his ailing comrade. A maelstrom of fervent emotions had jumbled his mind, and he had begun to wonder, as the hours wore painfully on, if he had perhaps lost his way. To his rushed, panicked eyes, the trees looked entirely too familiar, and his road was uncertain. It took all his will to regain command over his fright and worry and concentrate on finding the correct direction. As the day had worn, the gray clouds had slipped to the east on a gentle gale, clearing a path for the warm light of the sun. The rays eased his battered body and chased away his trepidation. They gave him hope. It had been so long since the day had been bright! With all his attention directed on his memory, he retraced his steps and found the meager camp.

He stood on its edge. A twig snapped beneath his feet, and those at the site looked up. Boromir's surprise abated quickly, turning from alarm to relief and then finally to joy. He met Aratadarion's gaze firmly.

Aratadarion watched him blankly as he slowly approached. The Elf seemed equally stunned by his appearance. Deep brown eyes penetrated him, analyzing him somewhat suspiciously. He said nothing as the prince regarded him. Then the tension eased, as though Aratadarion was satisfied that he posed no threat. Boromir tentatively stepped closer.

At Aratadarion's side rested Legolas. In the sunlight, the horror of what had been done to the archer was starkly clear. His face was flushed, sweaty with a breaking fever. Dirt and grime covered him like a second skin. The mess of his chest made Boromir grimace, for the welts, bruises, and lacerations looked painful and inflamed. Legolas' hair was dirty and tangled, falling before his eyes loosely. Still, he was somehow improved. The blue eyes that met his were alert, if not a bit hesitant.

For a long time no one spoke. The moment seemed unnatural, as though a strange scene of dream or illusion. Boromir watched silently as Aratadarion wrapped a bandage about his younger brother's wounded ribs. Legolas sat cross-legged, his face impassive, his eyes locked upon Boromir's face. He appeared wistful and afraid, uncertain of what to do and say. Boromir watched him with a concerned gaze. The warrior was suddenly infinitely glad for the harsh words he had spoken to the twins of Thranduil before leaving their company. They had obviously been enough to chastise them into motion, and their finding of Legolas had undoubtedly saved their brother's life. The lucidity of Legolas was remarkable, considering how wrought he had been with disease and delirium.

Finally Boromir forced himself to speak, since it was clear neither of Thranduil's sons would purge the emptiness. "Where is Astaldogald?" he asked softly, standing in front of Legolas.

Aratadarion looked to his brother as if for reassurance or permission to speak. Legolas lowered his eyes, flexing repeatedly and nervously the fingers of his left hand. "He has gone to scout a path to the Anduin," Aratadarion finally answered. The meek words were laced with something Boromir could not quite place. There was pain and anger in the voice of the sort the man had never before heard. Though the matter befuddled him, he chose not to think on it or speak of it further.

He looked to Legolas. The other winced as Aratadarion tied tightly the bandage. Boromir struggled with what to say. His heart was yearning for Legolas' forgiveness in a way he had never previously wanted something. It was as though this was the final part of his quest, the last trial to face, before he might find redemption. The silence became unbearable. "I have done what you asked of me," he declared softly. This he offered.

Legolas looked up. In the depths of his eyes was rage and agony. Yet beneath this lurked something that gave Boromir hope. Legolas' gaze held an unspoken wish to again have faith. "Where is it?" he questioned coolly.

Boromir felt his resolve waver, but he could not fail. He had come this far on the chance Legolas had given him. He would not now give up! "I destroyed it," he admitted quietly. The gaze turned to a questioning glare, and Boromir knew he had to better explain himself. "I could not bear to carry it. The attraction was too strong, and I did not know whether I could control myself."

The admission hung in the moment. Legolas seemed to neither accept nor reject it. He lowered his gaze tiredly, as though hiding tears from Boromir, and the man ached inside. "I stopped Saruman," he declared, looking down upon Legolas. "And I stopped myself."

Again Legolas looked up. The rage and agony had melted, washed away by the glimmer of hopeful tears. Boromir felt his own eyes moisten. He crouched before the other, his body yearning for a sign of acceptance. "I am so sorry, Legolas." He grasped the shoulder of the other, squeezing it through the material of the cloak Legolas wore. "I am so sorry. I know that I was wrong. I followed my heart as you told me, and I know now that I was wrong!"

Legolas looked down and closed his eyes. Boromir squinted through the tears. Neither spoke, and Aratadarion simply watched. When the silence became too powerful, Boromir sighed softly. He dropped his imploring gaze and his arm in dejection. Even if Legolas would not forgive him, there was still more he might do. Saruman had revealed much to him. Though Faramir rode to Minas Tirith to prevent the evil plots of the wizard's spy, it was his responsibility to protect Aragorn and his father. It was his duty to protect his king.

"We must travel to Minas Tirith," declared Boromir. He looked to Aratadarion and met the Elf's inquisitive and troubled gaze. "There is dissension in my father's house. Saruman sent forth an agent to cause danger and discord. Aragorn has been jailed." At that Legolas looked up. The blue eyes burned in worry now, and his bruised face was tight in apprehension. Boromir felt bleak and horrible in delivering such wretched news, but there was urgency he could not deny. "There is more yet that threatens. This spy has attempted to convince my father that Elf will turn upon man in the final moments. He is destroying what remains of the Last Alliance!"

"No," whispered Legolas, ashen and angered. "Aragorn will not allow that!"

Boromir shook his head. "I fear my father might be inclined to believe this informer for purely selfish reasons. That is why Aragorn has been imprisoned." The man felt anger and hurt pound in his blood. A lie about his own death would not be the cause for their defeat! "We must reach Minas Tirith quickly. There is little time!"

Aratadarion seemed doubtful. "The distance is great and we are low on supplies. It will be a difficult journey," he declared softly, glancing between the man and his sibling for a decision. "Astaldogald will not agree."

Boromir shook his head, once again faulting Aratadarion for his meekness and his twin for his oppressive prejudice. "It matters not. A legion from Mirkwood has marched south. If he will not help men, surely he will work to protect his own!"

Legolas and Aratadarion shared a moment of silent communication. It was unusual to Boromir. Aratadarion regarded his young brother with such grief and sadness that it nearly tore at the man's resolve. Finally the older Elf nodded. "Yes," he said softly. He met Boromir's gaze strongly, and the son of Denethor was surprised by the tenacity in the prince's gaze. "Yes. This we must do." He looked to Legolas and rose gracefully to a crouch. "Can you stand, little one?"

Legolas' jaw tightened. In his eyes was something else now. The grief and horror remained, but perhaps this new purpose had brought him a bit of hope. At least Boromir hoped it might provide him with something to distract him from what he had endured. Aratadarion offered his brother his hand. Slowly Legolas reached from beneath the cloak and grasped it.

It was a painful thing to watch. Boromir grimaced as Legolas tried to pull himself to his feet. He shook and grunted with the effort, his eyes narrowed with hurt and frustration. When it became too trying, the man stepped forward and grabbed Legolas' other arm tenderly. Legolas stared at him in confusion and fear a moment, as if deciding whether or not it was safe to accept this aid. Boromir's heart pounded, praying again that his hurt comrade might have faith in him enough to allow him to help. The moment passed, and Legolas gripped his arm in return. Together, Boromir and Aratadarion succeeded in pulling him to his feet.

Silence. Boromir could not contain his happiness and relief, and he offered Legolas an affectionate smile. For his own part Legolas hesitated, but Boromir did not rush him. Trust was not a thing easily won, and Legolas would be long in healing. Still, this now could be a beginning. That was enough to placate Boromir's wants. It was sufficient to give him hope to yet again regain a lost friendship.

Suddenly there came a rustle behind him, and the air turned sour.

There was a furious howl, one that rang through the tenuous moment of peace, destroying it with the horror of impending violence. Boromir saw Legolas' eyes widen in terror. But he could not turn around fast enough to prevent what he somehow knew was coming.

It was a strange thing, really, to feel the sword slide through his chest. Intense pain burned his back, stealing his breath and his strength. The cold metal was a foreign thing inside him, slicing flesh from flesh and bone from bone, bringing horrible agony to everything it touched. The pain was slow to recede, and the moment dragged on torturously forever. He gaped, wishing to breathe, but for some reason he could not. More unusual was the apathy claiming him. He stared endlessly into Legolas' large, horrified eyes, the expression on the other's face one of absolute shock and dismay. It seemed almost silly to see Legolas so locked in fright, and he might have laughed if only for the sad realization that he had been stabbed.

The sword yanked out. He would have screamed had he the breath. There was warm blood running down his skin, gushing from inside him, dripping to the ground. Legolas had never blinked. So strange! The world grew hazy, and he could not stand any longer. The pain faded and blackness pressed upon him. Shadows of a different kind had captured him now. He tried to think, to speak, to breathe, but he was sinking down deeper into a sad, dark acceptance.

His knees buckled, and he limply fell forward into the arms of the one he had once betrayed.

Awkward arms grasped him. He grinned weakly. Legolas smelled like the woods, like a cool breeze, warm like the sun. He thought he should feel anger and rage, at least terror. All that remained was a sorrowful regret. The battle was ending. His trial was over.

Now maybe there would be peace.


	20. To Find the Sun

Everything stopped, holding still, waiting to make real what had just happened. They all teetered in the instance, swaying in shock and dismay. It seemed so grotesque, so completely incredible, that none could force his dazed mind to accept the strange happening. Yet, if nothing else was constant in life, it was the march of time, and it would not wait for them to deny or even understand.

Legolas cried out as Boromir collapsed heavily into him. The weight was too much for his weak legs, and he fell backwards, the limp man crushing him into the ground. The jolt of the impact rattled his bones, his head snapping back into the rock, and tears flooded his eyes. Boromir laid over him, smothering him. Something warm and wet trickled onto Legolas' breast. He blinked the moisture from his eyes, his mind still reeling, as he looked up.

Astaldogald stood over them. The sword that had stabbed through Boromir glinted wickedly in the sun, stained a horrible and gruesome red. Legolas' eyes widened in disbelief and horror. He could not breathe as he watched his brother's chest heave in ire and eyes burn in murderous hatred. The blood dripped to the ground.

After a still moment, Boromir coughed. The man was gasping heavily as he struggled to push himself up. His arms, braced against the ground, shook with the effort. Legolas snapped his terrified gaze to him, watching thunderstruck as the hot blood spilled from the chest wound. It was too much for his pained, broken mind to handle, and he laid holding his breath, stunned into a frozen dismay. When the weakened eyes of Boromir slowly opened and locked upon his own, reality snapped viciously back into motion.

Legolas grasped Boromir's shoulder. Despite his own tender wounds, he helped the man raise his torso. Panicked, he turned the warrior over gently. Boromir moaned, panting and coughing, as the other set him upon his back. "Boromir," gasped Legolas. Desperately, he pressed his own hand over the gushing laceration. A quick inspection dashed whatever hope still remained within him. The injury was deep; it had cut apart his innards. The bleeding was horrendous, spilling sticky, hot red in a great torrent. It seeped through his tight fingers. Legolas shook his head, feeling Boromir's life pulse against his hand. "Boromir!"

The man coughed again. His face had grown sickly pale and clammy. The locks of sandy brown hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. His chest heaved violently in a struggle for breath. Legolas shook his head, feeling utterly helpless. His racing mind stumbled, searching desperately for something,  _anything_ , to help now.

Boromir opened again his eyes. Embedded deep within the dark orbs was a sad peace. Legolas had not often seen it, but he understood well enough what it meant. Boromir was accepting his fate. "No, Boromir!" cried Legolas, his voice cracking in grief and fear. "Do not now give up!"

There came a grunt behind him. "Leave him, little one," said Astaldogald. Legolas stiffened. Inside him his rage sundered whatever restraint he had left. The overwhelming grief meshed with his fury, pounding against him with the power of fierce waves upon a beach. "This is what he deserves!"

The spite and arrogance in his brother's tight tone was too much, and Legolas felt hot fury course over him as his control utterly snapped. A cry of rage tore raggedly from his throat and he leapt. The pain of his legs and chest went unheeded as he tackled Astaldogald.

His brother yelped in surprise as they fell together to the ground. The impact was rough, but Legolas barely felt the discomfort from his wounds as he pressed Astaldogald tightly to the cold forest floor. "How could you?" he hollered in a blind rage, grabbing the other's tunic, smearing blood upon the pristine fabric. His breath was a panicked rasp through clenched teeth as he violently slammed the hand holding the sword into the ground.

Astaldogald's eyes were smoldering with hate and annoyance. His other hand came to push Legolas' off of him. "Release me, little brother! You are of no station to do this! Unhand me now!"

"You murderer," hissed Legolas. In the haze of fiery fury, he could not think. The weight of all he had endured suddenly afforded him nothing but the comfort of his rage. His hand moved of its own ambition, tightening about the pale flash of his brother's throat. "You had no right. You had no right!" He cursed the fingers of his left hand. Still so weak, they could hardly put pressure into the hold.

Astaldogald coughed and grunted. He suddenly struck Legolas across the side of the head, sending his sick brother with a cry falling to the side. Pain flowered through Legolas' temple and for a moment he could not see or hear. When again his senses returned to him, he found Aratadarion at his side. Cool hands helped him sit up. A long arm stretched across his shoulder to support him. Legolas tasted blood in his mouth; his lip had split, he realized as he probed his face with shaking fingers.

Astaldogald stood over them, breathing heavily. He touched the red gore upon his tunic, regarding the stain with unfathomable disgust, as though the blood of a man was poisonous. The murderous rage still burned in his dark eyes. His sword he lifted, leveling the tip with Legolas' face. Aratadarion numbly shook his head.

Legolas narrowed his eyes. He was not afraid. "I hate you," he snapped, shrugging away from Aratadarion's restraining holds. He coughed violently, his sick body shaking for sudden breath, but even that could not still his bleeding heart. "You are nothing more than a cold-blooded killer!"

Astaldogald paled, but his own fury could not be dented. "Hold your tongue, little one," he said icily.

"Do not call me that!" Legolas raged. He tried to stand and damned his wretched body when he could not. He groaned, furious with himself. "Never call me that again!"

Aratadarion grabbed Legolas' arm to steady him as his younger brother slumped weakly back down. The Elf's eyes glistened with alarmed, terrified tears. "Please! Stop this!" he demanded. But his helpless cries went unheard.

Legolas' gaze was piercing. He glared at Astaldogald as he never had before. "You are dead to me," he declared. The venom dripped from his voice freely. The words were tumbling from quivering lips. "Do you understand? I will not call such a monster my brother!"

Astaldogald let out an enraged cry of frustration. His pale skin glowed violently in the sunlight; even so furious it did not become red. He did seem a phantom or demon, something twisted horribly by both hate and love, something lost and confused and made spiteful because of it. "Why do you love them so, Legolas? After all they have done to you, how can you still hold them so highly in your heart?" His tone became almost pained. "Why do you value friendship with a man over your own blood?"

"Aragorn does not hate so blindly," Legolas answered quietly, his voice seething. "He is good and strong. He has been more a brother to me in the short time I have known him than you have been for all my life!"

Astaldogald's fierce expression shattered. They were still a moment, breathing heavily. Time stopped briefly, wondering perhaps what might now happen. Would this wound close? There was blood everywhere. "Legolas, I-"

"No!" shouted Legolas, pulling away from Aratadarion. "I wish not to hear your apologies and your excuses!"

The anger quickly returned. "You child," hissed Astaldogald. "I should have ended your misery when there was the chance!"

Alarm and fear stopped Legolas' heart. He did not understand what his brother meant, but the words had a horrible implication that stung at his resolve. But before he could question, Aratadarion yelled, "Stop this!" The lithe Elf rose from his crouch, suddenly seeming tall. The tension from the situation had leaked into his long face, chasing away his fear and replacing it with the same, frustrated anger. "The man bleeds to death!"

Fright suddenly chilled Legolas. His glare broke quickly as the cold rushed over his aching body. He scrambled forward, crawling desperately to Boromir. In his rage he had all but forgotten! "Boromir," he whispered hoarsely, kneeling again over the man. Boromir's face was ghastly white and shone from sweat. His eyes were half-lidded, sunken into his skull and ringed in darkness. For a moment, Legolas intensely feared the man had died during his distraction, for the limp body was dreadfully still. He refused to accept it. "Open your eyes, Boromir!" he gasped desperately. He laid a grime-covered hand against Boromir's pale cheek. The other pressed once more over the wound. The bleeding had not slowed. Legolas shook his head. "Please…"

"Now you cry for the one that betrayed you." The words hurt deeply and Legolas stiffened. Where his rage had before powered him, his despair and grief now threatened him with complete collapse. Tears filled his eyes. "You are truly pathetic, Legolas. You are hardly worthy of being Father's son," Astaldogald sneered. Legolas refused to look behind him, pressing harder over the wound, his panic and pain creating a sick dizziness. "Weep, then! Spill your weakness! He is your lot now, anyway! Mortality makes you as much a wretch as he!"

There was the sound of flesh striking flesh, a crack that resounded like lightning. Legolas turned in shock. Astaldogald stood, his face having been ripped to the side, a red, stinging mark upon his cheek. His hand immediately rose to rub the small wound, his eyes wide and unbelieving.

Aratadarion lowered his fist. "Get out of here," he hissed. His glare was unbreakable, his face a picture of barely stifled fury. "You have betrayed my trust. Father was right. You are only a jealous child!" Astaldogald remained paralyzed a moment longer, his mouth hanging limply open. He began to speak then, but his words were silenced. Aratadarion bellowed with vehemence Legolas had never before heard. " _Leave!_ "

The command would not be ignored. Twins warred silently perhaps a minute longer, before Astaldogald crumbled under the violent fury of Aratadarion's glare. Legolas watched numbly, shocked and afraid. Then Astaldogald stepped back, as if frightened of his twin's now mute threat. The Elf prince shook his head in disbelief before turning. The sound of his fleeing feet filled the still air.

Legolas looked torpidly at the dark trees through which Astaldogald had run. His trance was saturated with grief and anger, and he could find no strength to break from it. His heart was ripped, torn by harsh words and the ever-growing rift between himself and his brother. Aratadarion stood stiffly a moment. His hand dropped from the hilt of his own blade, and Legolas blanched. He had not seen his brother grasp his weapon. Ai, such a horrible thing! Aratadarion slumped tiredly, weakly. He bowed his head in the silence.

There came a rasping breath from below him, and Legolas ripped away. His heart again began to pound frantically.

Boromir blinked rapidly, obviously struggling to focus. His hand reached up to grab Legolas' arm. The grip was tight, as though he were fighting to maintain a hold on something that might keep him tethered to this world. From his lips came a gurgling rasp. "I… I am so sorry…"

"Do not speak, Boromir," Legolas chided softly. The horrible weight of what was happening was pushing upon his shoulders, and he was frantic to do something to stop what inevitably would come. "It does not matter now." He lifted his hand from the wound, saw the angry flesh spilling lifeblood with rancorous fury. He shook his head sadly in denial. "I must bind this!"

"Nay, Legolas," came the whispered response. Legolas swallowed heavily and met Boromir's cloudy gaze. "Leave it. It is too late now."

"No!" cried Legolas. The tears began to grow again in his eyes as his heart thundered in angry defiance. He refused to simply let Boromir go! "We can yet save you," he gasped. Boromir grabbed his blood-soaked hand and held it tightly, squeezing his fingers. "Ai, Elbereth… there must be something," Legolas moaned.

Boromir offered a weak grin. The sight warmed his heart. "Do not trouble yourself, dear Legolas…You have given me so much. You offered me the chance I needed. I did nothing to deserve your trust, yet you granted me it all the same."

Something inside him began to throb, swollen with tears over unspeakable loss. "I gave you nothing, Boromir," Legolas declared softly. His voice was nothing above a saddened whisper. "You earned again my trust."

The man smiled wider and released a choked sob. The hold upon Legolas' hand became almost crushing. Tears escaped Boromir's half-lidded, calm eyes, sliding down the side of his face. Legolas quivered. "The sun!" whispered Boromir in euphoria. The archer glanced upward.

Warm light streamed through the canopy of twisted limbs, racing down from the bright, blue sky to caress them. It felt so good, so glorious. The golden illumination brought life and love to everything it touched. Legolas lowered again his gaze to Boromir. The man licked his lips and closed his eyes. "The sun! It feels so good to again see it!" A weak laugh fled him. "I have so missed the sun."

"Be still," Legolas pleaded. He had no wish to admit the truth. There was little now to stop the grasp of mortality from taking Boromir. The wound would soon be fatal.

The man's gaze was lost, distant, perhaps knowing things only those that linger in the place between life and death can see. "I understand now," he declared, a touch of satisfaction and absolution in his voice. "She spoke to me, so many nights ago. The fair Lady! She told me that there was yet hope. I could not see it then, but now I do. Now I see it!" Legolas did not comprehend Boromir, but he did not question. "Aragorn… he is our hope."

The words brought a strange sense of completion to the moment. Legolas bowed his head, not wanting to let the peace go, wishing with every ounce of his being that it did not have to end like this. Boromir's bloody hand fell against his cheek and he opened his eyes. The man was gasping, struggling for his last breath. "Legolas… You are so strong. Do not despair. This was meant to be." The man gave a whimsical grin that faded quickly with a grave whimper. "Would  _you_  now help me?"

His heart broke. So strange that this very same thing had transpired between them mere nights prior! The very twist of fate! "I will," answered Legolas despondently, trying desperately to hold back his despair.

Boromir released a relieved sigh. The hand grasping Legolas' own brought it to the cold hilt of the sword strapped at the warrior's side. "Take my blade," he implored. "Protect him with it. Do this for me. I would… I would much be pleased to know my sword aids again my king."

The metal felt powerful to his fingers. Legolas gripped the blade, Boromir's hand pressing his fingers around the pommel. The vow fled his lips without a thought. "Of course, Boromir. No harm will come to him. I promise you."

A gasp and then a weak smile. "I believe you! Legolas, I believe you." The man choked. His eyes lost their vigor as the shadow of death crept about them. "Tell Aragorn that I would have followed him. Tell him how very sorry I am!" Legolas bit his lip. He could only nod. The eyes slipped shut. A weak shudder claimed Boromir, and his flesh was growing cold. A dying breath escaped him with a calm sigh. "The sun is so warm…"

Then he was still.

The forest was quiet. Aratadarion watched, silent and lost. Legolas knelt there beside his comrade. A painful aching grew inside him and he exhaled slowly, bowing his head in grief. Gently he released Boromir's hand. Both of his palms he pressed to the face of the fallen warrior. "Be at peace," he implored quietly, "my friend." Softly he pressed his lips to Boromir's brow.

The light came down upon him, but it felt cold. He knew nothing but loss and grief. Slowly he rose, leaning back on his heels, and looked up. The rays blinded him and he squinted as he stared at the blaring ball of light piercing the sky.

There was nothing left. No truth. No comfort. No hope.

He wondered why fate sought to destroy. His heart was raw, bleeding, throbbing in anguish. He wondered where he might find peace.

Legolas wept. The tears tasted bitter.

* * *

The sun now was setting, spilling blood over the land. The red seeped between the trees, creeping through the shadows like a silent predator seeking to capture and destroy. A heavy silence had descended over the forest, rarely broken by breeze, never by word. The sorrow was suffocating, strangling heart into a pained pulse and body into a lethargic exhaustion. Soon it would be night, and then would come a blackness so deep and crushing that no light from the stars or moon would penetrate. Slow to sink, the sun spread a last, strange heat that seemed wrong and laden with violence and desperation. Spirits were bleeding. The forest was wounded.

Legolas sat numbly. Though the chill of night would soon approach, he made no move to better cover his bare upper body with Boromir's bloodstained cloak. Instead, he rested stiffly, eerie in his tense immobility. He felt dead inside, as though the weight of everything had suddenly become too much for his weary soul. Whatever light that had once graced him was now crushed by the curse of Saruman and the grief for Boromir. It was neither depression nor rage that paralyzed him; rather, he had become somewhat immune to his own emotions. His apathy idly concerned him, but he was truly beyond any sense of feeling. Weariness simply forbade tears or screams. There was no use in fighting or running. He would never escape this destiny.

Hours before, Aratadarion had helped him burn Boromir's body. It perhaps was not the custom for men, but they had few other choices given their location and supplies. They had constructed a rather shoddy pyre of dry branches and laid upon it the fallen warrior's corpse. Legolas had stood stiffly, stoically, watching as Aratadarion had set flame to the kindling. The wood was slow to catch fire, but once it did, the flames devoured easily enough. The light of blaze had glistened in his empty eyes, and he had dully observed the fire consume Boromir. Tears had not come to him. Anger had given him no strength. There was perhaps a fleeting sense of understanding and conclusion in his muddled mind. The man had not died in regret or rage. He had simply accepted his fate, easing himself peacefully into what laid beyond life upon Middle Earth. Such a thing was a mystery to the immortal Elves, but for Legolas the prospect had begun to take a different shape. Only now, as he tiredly pondered, did he realize that he too would one day face that road. He envied Boromir for the man's strength and resolution; death was an obstacle his friend had conquered bravely. Terror he might have felt if not for the weariness of his spirit. Worrying about it brought too much pain, and he needed no more.

The silence was heavy but not awkward. He sat, blankly witnessing the blood of the sunset spread over the forests of Minas Morgul. Boromir's long blade, elegant in angle and curve, lay peacefully in its scabbard before him. The final promise Legolas had made to the dying man again flitted across his mind. It was not unlike a vow made to Arwen the night before the Fellowship had left Rivendell, or the pledge sworn to Aragorn one afternoon lying in field after a game of tracking. He had promised to fight, to protect. It was a strange thing that in his darkest hour, when he had been stripped of all he had and all he was, this oath returned to him. Would this now be his purpose? The words shared with Boromir filled his heart. They were a cool balm to his sore and bloody resolve.  _"Take my blade. Protect him with it."_  He was fearful for Aragorn. Much had happened obviously in the world of men, and he knew little of the danger it posed to his dearest friend. His life had perhaps lost direction and meaning, robbed of truth and integrity, but he could at least keep his word. He must find Aragorn and help him, guard him with the blade of one had who died needlessly. He must ensure that Aragorn returned home to Arwen. He had meant words spoken in comfort to the daughter of Elrond.  _"No amount of distance or danger can sever the ties between us."_  He could not now deny his responsibility. He could not hurt Arwen or Aragorn, or make light of the promise given Boromir. If he did, truly he would have lost himself.

He wondered tiredly if he had the strength to do what was needed.

There was the sound of rustling leaves before him. Legolas looked up and focused blearily. Aratadarion stood over him. For a moment, they did not speak, the two brothers sharing an uncomfortable instance of uncertainty. They had never been close before, and the ghost of what could have been had not they been torn apart by venomous arguments and spite hovered over them. Then Aratadarion smiled weakly. Legolas was reminded of their mother. "I am sorry, my brother," began Aratadarion quietly. The voice held much: fear, grief, self-loathing. Legolas watched as Aratadarion averted his eyes. "I am sorry that he has done what he did."

Rancorous anger burst inside Legolas, but he ignored it. "It was no fault of yours," he replied quietly.

Aratadarion's guilt would not be so easily appeased. "Nay, it was in part. I knew he was violent. I saw the madness glint in his eyes. He wanted to slay you when we found you. He nearly did."

Legolas looked down. The words should have angered and disturbed him greatly, but he was beyond hearing the cries of his heart. He narrowed his eyes. Aratadarion went on slowly, the soft voice gentle. "I had hoped it was only grief and fear that drove him. Now I am doubting."

They were silent again. Legolas felt lost and uncertain. "Thank you," he murmured quietly, "for protecting me. I know it must have been difficult."

Aratadarion seemed caught in thought, distant. "To say otherwise would be a lie," he declared sadly. "I love him dearly, and I ache for his turmoil. Yet you are my brother as well, Legolas. I would not sacrifice you for the sake of my loyalty. For so long I lived in his shadow, and I did not mind, for his was a proud shadow that felt warm and secure. I could not simply stand aside and let him spill the blood of Father." Legolas nodded. Aratadarion seemed greatly changed from the mellow, melancholic Elf he had left behind in his father's court. Once, long ago in his youth, he had fancied the quiet one his mentor and loving friend. Aratadarion had been patient with him as he matured, forever answering every inane or curious question, always offering to engage in study or song. When Astaldogald had grown spiteful of Legolas' thoughts, the rift between brothers had split him from Aratadarion. He could not fault his older, meek sibling for his hesitation. A bond so tight as that between twins went deeper than friendship or even brotherhood. Aratadarion then spoke again. "I have never really understood why he feels the way he does over you. For many years I have believed his disrespect of you to be rooted in envy, but I now realize that that does not fully explain him. I think now I am beginning to understand." Legolas finally again met his brother's gaze. "He is jealous of Aragorn."

It made sad sense. Legolas supposed that he too had considered such a reason for Astaldogald's behavior, but the words still served to alarm him. He looked to Aratadarion with apologetic eyes. Perhaps the mess of his emotions simply granted him little in way of logic or control, for he suddenly felt wretchedly guilty. He had never meant for his friendship with Aragorn to drive apart his family. "I did not intend to cause this strife," he declared softly, his shaking voice betraying him.

Aratadarion offered him a contemplative smile. "Had you known this would result, would you have altered your actions?" The question required no answer, but Legolas knew the truth inside. Even if knowing Aragorn had brought his brothers discord and would eventually only cause heartache for him, he would not take back what he had done. The fun memories and companionable trust were simply too important. He looked down then, centering his blank gaze upon Boromir's sword.

They were silent again for a moment. Legolas was swept away in a river of anguish, and he was weary of the fight. He felt his eyelids droop shut, and he wanted nothing more than to simply lapse into a dreamless sleep. There the pain could not touch him. He might find escape in his dreams from the horrible finality.

"I leave our destination in your hands, my brother," Aratadarion finally said, drawing again Legolas' attention. He looked up and met the gaze of the Elf prince, finding worry and grief in the other's eyes. Yet there was a bit of determination that gave Legolas hope. "I will let you decide our path, for you have suffered greatly. Should you decide to return home, I will see you there. Should you wish to travel to the city of men, in this too will I assist you."

The question proved more difficult than he had expected. He could not deny his want to return home. Though he knew his arrival would be a trying ordeal, he felt that somehow to be again in Mirkwood would remedy his sad state, as though seeing the forests and his father might wake him from a horrible nightmare. He was weary of travel and very sick at heart. Yet he could not abide by his silent wishes and yearnings. There was much yet to be done, and as one of the Fellowship, as Aragorn's brother and protector, he was needed elsewhere. "We must travel to Minas Tirith. If there is to be a last confrontation, it will occur there." He shook his head sadly, his eyes becoming cloudy with numb thoughts. "We have come this far; it would be faithless now to simply abandon the fight."

Though Aratadarion sought to mask it, a bit of dismay and fear crept into the Elf's eyes. He watched Legolas for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to abide by what he had promised. Then he nodded slowly. "So be it," he said. He crouched gracefully before Legolas, drawing his younger brother's attention. "But I must make a stipulation." Legolas met his gaze then, and found Aratadarion gently vehement. "We walk only at a pace you can keep. You shall wear my shoes and my tunic as we travel."

Legolas cringed inwardly, though his blue eyes flashed briefly with irritation. He understood what his brother was implying. "I am no invalid," he muttered, looking away when tears of frustration blurred his vision. He cursed himself for this insipid weakness! Would he never again have control over his emotions? This newfound moodiness was something to which he was greatly unaccustomed.

"No, you are not," answered Aratadarion. His tone was tender and reassuring. He reached forward to clasp his depressed sibling upon the shoulder firmly. "But you are my brother, and you are ill. I will not have you worsen your condition by continuing the abuse of your body."

Legolas squeezed his eyes shut against the hot, frustrated tears. He was terribly ashamed of acting as such before Aratadarion, but he found he was simply too exhausted and forlorn to battle his raging emotions. "Please do not treat me as a child. For the sake of my own sanity, act as though nothing has happened. Nothing has changed.  _Please."_

Another hand grasped his chin and turned his face gently. He could no longer hide his tears, but Aratadarion did not appear to be disgusted. "Neither of us can do that, Legolas, no matter how much we wish to. It grieves me deeply to see you like this; I cannot lie even to ease my own pain. But do not lose hope. Perhaps there is yet a way to remove this curse." The long fingers swept the ripped locks of hair from his bruised face compassionately. Aratadarion reached upward. From his own dark locks he removed a tie, freeing the hair from the tight braid. Gracefully he moved behind Legolas. His long fingers swept back his brother's blond hair and bound it loosely at the base of his neck. "Remember the words of our mother. She always told us to have heart, for as long as we love and are loved, there can be hope." Aratadarion returned to Legolas' gaze and laid a hand compassionately against his sibling's cheek. There were tears in his deep eyes. "You have a great heart, Legolas. I have never known your strength or vigor in myself, but I do not fear. I have faith in your spirit now." The Elf prince smiled softly.

Legolas reached up and took the hand against his face. Gratefully he clasped it between his own, tears slipping down his cheeks. "Thank you," he said weakly, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Nay, do not thank me for words not mine," Aratadarion chided gently, rising once more. "It was Boromir that gave me hope when I had all but given up. The man's… scolding was a bit harsh, but their wisdom was powerful indeed." His grin was a bit apologetic, as though he faulted himself for his lapse in faith. "Whatever demons he held within, whatever wrong he did, he died a valiant and noble man."

Legolas nodded, his gesture small. The grief was still too near, too fresh, but he could not deny the truth in Aratadarion's words. Boromir had found his redemption. He had faced his fate in peace. It was but a small absolution.

The bloody sunset touched them. Aratadarion glanced about, nervousness etched into a now taut expression. "Let us make haste, for it is nearly dusk. Nazgûl roam these woods under cover of darkness. We would do well to avoid them."

They moved quickly then. Aratadarion shed his boots and helped Legolas ease his injured feet into them. The limbs were quite swollen so the fit was less than comfortable, but it was far better than further ripping the wounds during the journey. Split from the song of nature, his body could not so easily contend with injury and ailment. He was as hindered by frailties of the flesh as any mortal. The thought remained an unspoken fear between them, a sore festering in concern and grief. After, the Elf prince removed his outer tunic and offered it to his brother. The article was a bit big, but a welcome warmth to his abused skin. Boromir's bloodied cloak he fastened about his shoulders. The blade of Gondor he bound to his hip. He bore the burden of his promise.

Aratadarion helped Legolas to his feet and wrapped a long arm about the younger brother's waist. The first step was quite painful and nearly sent them both to the hard, cold ground. But Legolas jammed his tongue into his teeth to hold back his cry as he struggled onward. Aratadarion watched him worriedly but said nothing. The next step was easier. The pain became tolerable, and Legolas thought he could now walk. Still, the effort had worn him momentarily, and he leaned onto his brother's form, winded and weak.

Aratadarion tightened his grip and simply stood still as Legolas caught his breath. The Elf glanced about again. Though the shadow of his anxiety had not fled his face, there was a gentle peace in his eyes. "These woods were once glorious," he murmured quietly, watching the bent trees bleed silently in the sunset. Then he turned and met Legolas' gaze. "Surely they will one day be so again. I think I might very much like to see that."

The silence inside Legolas grew distressing, and he averted his eyes. His longing to again hear the song of this forest became powerful and crushing. He knew Aratadarion had not meant to harm him with his innocent statements, but the words had hurt him dearly all the same. The burden weighed upon his hip, and the curse swallowed his light. As they slowly walked west into the setting sun, his eyes narrowed and his pale face grew taut. The wail of his pain became quiet, crushed by numb resolution. The tears dried upon his cheeks.

He could still fight, and he would, no matter the cost to himself. It was the only way he could reclaim any part of his lost soul.

He would protect him. He would protect them all.

* * *

Through the crawling evening mists rode Faramir and the company of Gondor. The men were weary, but he allowed no rest. The sudden appearance of Boromir had been unsettling enough to enforce their relentless march without much of his own order. He was glad for it; this he could not deny, for he was deeply confused by his brother's words and actions. Though again and again he pondered it, he could make no sense of the guilty eyes and rushed demands. The enigma greatly troubled him, and he was relieved that his loyal and competent men could find their way home without much guidance.

Night had quickly descended, leaving little means to tell their direction. The sky had once more grown cloudy, signaling an impending storm and effectively masking whatever helpful light the stars shed. Yet they were near the footbridge that had centuries past been built across the Anduin. It marked a time when the race of men had been strong and important, when there had been a great need to connect the twin cities of Minas Tirith and Minas Ithil. In the past many had traveled its worn, cobblestone surface. Merchants had used it as a trade route. Kings had sent troops to Mordor over it. Since Minas Ithil had fallen, few traversed it. As the meager light that pierced through the clouds illuminated the bridge's weathered walls and eroded road, Faramir found himself a bit reassured. They were close enough to Gondor now that stopping was foolish. Nothing would dare chase them once they crossed the Anduin.

As they approached the bridge, Faramir once again grew lost in his thoughts. Though the urgency did not leave his weary body, much of his fear had abated since reaching the boundary of Minas Morgul. His mind buzzed with confusion and concern. Never before had he seen his brother so riled, so distressed. The guilty, desperate look in Boromir's eyes haunted him, and he could not deny his worry. When word of Boromir's death had reached his father's house, a great depression had come over him. He had long had the deepest admiration for his sibling. Boromir always had taken much upon himself for the sake of Gondor, and Faramir respected and loved his brother for it. Dark times had long come to the nation of men, and Denethor's health and vitality were waning. In this desperate age, it had been Boromir that commanded, that offered sound advice, that volunteered for the dangerous and difficult tasks. He had, after all, trekked the great distance to Rivendell based on a mere rumor of the One Ring's existence. He had joined the Fellowship to protect Gondor. Faramir was proud to owe his love and allegiance to such a fine man.

What Boromir had told him disturbed him greatly. The thought of corruption and deceit in Minas Tirith was troubling. His father had been hesitant to trust completely the suspect words of the messenger from Rohan, and with good reason, for the allegation the informer offered was zealous and serious. Obviously, Faramir realized now, it was also a falsehood. Boromir had not been murdered. It was clear many foul happenings had come to the Fellowship of the Ring, but that crime had not been one of them. Why would this man from Rohan perpetuate such a lie? Clearly there was a great deal more afoot than he knew about. If usury was the intention, his father might be in danger. There was little time to waste!

Yet not only what Boromir had said unnerved him; the manner in which his brother spoke was so strange and unusual. The elation Faramir had felt at seeing his lost sibling alive was tinged by anger and frustration. It was as though this chance meeting had not been intended to reunite them, but to serve some greater purpose. Parting once more had been a grotesque experience that left him wrought with confusion and shivers of eerie dismay. Perhaps what had appeared before him had truly been nothing more than a ghost or phantom. It greatly saddened him to consider it, but he could not simply ignore the growing wail of his heart. The man he had coincidentally come across had been a mere shell of the warrior he had once known. The heavy guilt in Boromir's dark eyes, the shame of his tone and the panic of his words… What had really happened to the Nine Walkers? It was a question that plagued him, and he could by no means answer it. Something horrible had befallen Boromir, and Faramir ached since he could neither deduce what had happened nor offer aid. His helplessness tortured him, and more than once during this walk back to Gondor had he considered returning to Boromir. The wild look in those eyes with which he had so often in the past shared an affectionate glance held such finality. Somehow Faramir knew he would not again see his brother.

The only thing he could do was complete the task Boromir had given him. Duty was more important than misgivings or sorrow. Boromir had known that. Whatever responsibility, which had borne the desperation into his older brother's eyes, had outweighed the moment, and they had parted. The past could not be undone.

There came a scuffle ahead, and Faramir freed himself from his thoughts. A scout approached quickly, jogging across the uneven ground. He stopped before his commander and saluted stiffly. The young man appeared winded and flushed. "Sir, we have encountered a figure on the bridge. He wishes to speak with you."

Faramir's brow wrinkled in confusion. "With me?" He shook his head slowly and distrustfully. This land was far too remote and dangerous for any ordinary traveler. There was no time to consider it, however. "Send him away with apologies. We must make haste."

The bewildered scout numbly declared, "Sir, he claims that he is Gandalf the White."

Faramir drew a short breath. Disbelief caused his heart to flutter. "Gandalf the White? Surely not! He was last known as the Grey." The mighty wizard had reportedly joined the Fellowship in their quest. Perhaps he might answer some of Faramir's insistent questions. How the young man wished to understand!

He must have stood still, musing for quite some time, for one of his lieutenants clasped his shoulder in concern and the scout regarded him with wide eyes. "Shall I still send him away, Lord?"

"Nay," Faramir responded quickly, offering them an apologetic frown. "Summon him, for I have much to ask him." As the scout rushed off into the blackness, Faramir's heart began to race in anticipation. He turned to the lieutenant. "Tell the men to take a brief respite. Post guards."

The soldier murmured an acknowledgment before ducking away to carry out the order. Faramir was alone for a moment, and he waited in nervousness, pacing the ground with anxious intensity. Idly he heard Boromir's chiding voice, reminding him to always appear confident even when doubting. A lord of men must never lose his bearings. It was sound advice, but Faramir had never possessed his brother's cool integrity or composure and was given to apprehension.

Finally, from the direction of the bridge, a small group of soldiers neared. In between the escort did indeed walk a figure dressed in the purest of white. The robes glowed in the heavy darkness. As they approached, Faramir's trepidation and uncertainty disappeared quickly. He had last seen the great Istar Gandalf in Minas Tirith at his father's court. At that time, he had sported a simple grey robe and knotted wooden staff. His beard had been of a crinkled and snarled sort, white hair peppered and lined with darker whiskers. The creature before him seemed much changed. The once tangled mane was now sleek, and his dress was white and elegant. The cloth glimmered and shone as he approached, clanking a large and smooth staff against the ground. Great power radiated from the tall frame, a silent danger in the still air. If not for the familiar, wise, old eyes and easy, open features, Faramir might not have recognized him.

"Gandalf, sir," he said after a moment of what could have been considered gawking. He shook himself from his daze and reclaimed his prior intentions. "I did not expect to meet you here!"

Gandalf smiled, the ancient, dry lips pulling into an easy grin. "Faramir, son of Denethor." The Istar grasped his staff. The top glowed, spreading a pale light into the blackness. "It is good that I have come upon you. I have urgent dealings in Minas Tirith."

"Then you must know of the dissension within my father's court," Faramir concluded.

Gandalf regarded him silently a moment, as if judging what would be proper to reveal. "I know of many dissensions in Middle Earth, my boy. Some will tell the fate of things to come. Others have already skewed the way of things past. The dark stain of corruption spreading over Denethor's decisions disturbs me greatly."

"You must mean the informer." At Gandalf's expecting stare, Faramir continued quickly. "A rider arrived from Rohan bearing news of the betrayal by the heir of Isildur."

"Betrayal? Of what sort?"

Faramir swallowed his anger and pain. "The man told my father that my brother, Boromir, had fallen during the battle at Helm's Deep in which Rohan opposed Isengard. He claimed that Aragorn, son of Arathorn, murdered him."

Gandalf's gaze grew dark and tight. Faramir observed him with fascination. "The situation is already dire, it seems. What has your father done with this information?"

"I know little, I am afraid. Aragorn was jailed upon his entrance to the White City." He felt anger crawl into his voice. He clenched a fist at his side. "It is a vile lie! Just one night past I, by chance, encountered my brother in the dark forests of Minas Morgul. He is alive! Whatever words this man from Rohan spoke were rooted in usury and greed, of this I am sure!"

The old wizard grasped his mailed shoulder tightly. "If what you say is true, we must make haste. The hour is late, and the black mark of Saruman lies upon everything. The corruption of the One Ring runs deeper than any can tell!" Faramir did not understand Gandalf completely, but he chose not to question, seeing the burning anger and exigency in the wizard's fathomless eyes. "The end is near indeed! We must remove the hold evil has over the world of men!"

"Yes," Faramir agreed. He raised his voice to his lieutenants. "Ready the men. We double our pace to Minas Tirith!" The soldiers answered with grunts. A chorus of orders resounded in the empty night. Following were the sounds of rising men and heavy feet. Faramir listened in satisfaction for a moment before returning his attention to the Istar before him. "Gandalf, sir, I apologize but I must ask you." He stepped closer and lowered his voice. "Whence I came upon Boromir, the strangest fury had crept into his eyes. He seemed feverish with unexplained guilt and desperation, but he would say naught of it to me, only that he had disgraced our father and our kingdom. I pray this is not so, but I cannot appease the pains of my heart or the whispers of my mind with so little knowledge of what has happened to the Nine Walkers." His gaze became imploring. He felt a bit childish asking this of the old wizard at such an inappropriate time and with a fervent, wistful tone, but he could not stop himself. "Perhaps you might tell me?"

Gandalf remained silent a moment, his eyes distant in thoughts private and likely troubling. Faramir intently stared at him, praying vehemently that the wizard might heed his request. After a long, quiet instance, Gandalf's dark gaze again focused upon him. "I fear it is not my place to tell you, young Faramir. Your brother has done much, both good and evil, and I cannot take it upon myself to bring to light crimes he wished to keep hidden." The grin returned, and though Faramir was aggravated at the ambiguous answer, he found the gesture somehow satisfying. "You will understand in time. We all will."

Further questions remained unasked. Faramir decided to simply trust his brother. The faith was perhaps blind, but it would be enough to placate his hurt for now. He nodded slowly and sighed. This truth was maybe not his to know.

One of his men jogged to him then. "We are ready, my Lord."

He abandoned his thoughts. "Good. We are off, then!"

Gandalf nodded gravely and looked west. "Yes, let us hasten to the White City." The wizard lowered his tone as he began to walk. "I pray we are not already too late."

Faramir stood stiffly, not knowing if Gandalf had meant for him to hear the utterance. He shuddered before he quickly followed. Whatever the danger or distress, he could not fail in Boromir's last orders.


	21. Truth and Lies

The night simply would not end. For hours Frodo had stared at the eastern skies, waiting anxiously for the light of dawn to split the blackness. In the bleak shadows it was all he could do. It had become so deeply black that he could not even see much beyond Shadowfax's large ears, so he had simply trusted the horse to pick their path through the rocks of Mordor. It was a frustrating thing, but he was helpless to change the situation. Thus, he had resigned to Shadowfax's direction and watched for the sunrise.

Maybe the first streaks of light were causing the clouds to glow. Frodo peered at them doubtfully. The reddish tint betrayed the fury of Mount Doom's fiery breath, and he sighed slowly. He was three or four days from it, he believed, and though the thought brought him a bit of relief, his concern mounted as the distance he traversed increased. There had been no sign of Sam. Desperation mingled with intense worry, turning Frodo's stomach into a churning, painful weight inside him. The closer he grew to the dark mountain, the more treacherous and uncertain the road became, and he was certain he would have easily lost his way if not for Shadowfax. How could Sam have possibly navigated this maze of black land? As the hours dragged onward, Frodo's concerns mounted. He prayed that he had not missed some vital trace of his friend but thought the possibility all too likely. Still, he could not turn back after traveling so far into Mordor. His fear and frustration became a pressing force of despair. He did not know how he could even hope to locate Sam in the vast and barren expanse of this place. For certain he could not give up.

The small creature sighed and lowered his gaze. The dawn was stubborn indeed this morning, intent to lay in sleep and drag the endless night on forever. Frodo bitterly glanced around, concentrating on scanning his surroundings to assuage his anger. The land was black and nondescript. He had entered into a valley of sorts. The path was enclosed on both sides by tall ridges of thin rock. Guarding the front of the left wall was another small precipice that hung over a bit, as though leaning upon the firmer, larger rocks for support. The dense shadows draped a blanket of obscurity over the stone, and Frodo squinted, trying to discern reality from figment.

Boulders lined the unmarked road through the gully. Everything was so dark and dull that Frodo quickly abandoned his visual search. He closed his eyes tiredly as they burned in disappointment, bowing his head while the horse slowly trotted onward. Though he had left Gandalf's company hopeful and enthusiastic, his energy had been all but depleted by the smothering bleakness of Mordor. It was such a great and horrible place, where one mountain looked the same as the last, painfully monotonous. In the quiet places of his heart he grew more and more frightened. How could Sam have survived here? Where had he gone? Had his dear friend perhaps reached Mount Doom? Frodo gazed blearily at the horizon. Gandalf told him to trust in Shadowfax. Inside, the Hobbit held doubts that he would rather not consider. He wondered how a beast, no matter how magnificent or powerful, could know the dark roads of Mordor. Yet for days Frodo had followed the advice of the sage wizard. It seemed rather silly to now change his course.

He tried not to think, forcing his mind into a blank void. It was not all that difficult a task, given his exhaustion, and for a while Frodo rode numbly, waiting for the next dark valley to unfurl before him for inspection, hoping vainly that dawn was perhaps not so far away. His daze was in fact short lived for Shadowfax abruptly halted. Frodo glanced around briefly and quickly realized they had not yet left the gully. His irritation and confusion quickly abated as he nudged and prodded the great mount forward. Shadowfax, however, had no intention of abiding by the Hobbit's wishes, standing still and tall. Frodo's brow wrinkled in bewilderment when he understood. Shadowfax was telling him to look around.

His small hands clenched the animal's mane, the sweaty fingers tangled in the fine hair for a good hold. Tentatively Frodo swung his short leg over Shadowfax's back. The horse, forever aware of his needs, lowered its massive neck. Frodo was set to the ground.

There he stood a moment. He found himself shivering, though the air was quite warm, and he drew he cloak tighter about himself. From the cloth wrappings at his waist he drew the Elven knife. Even it could barely shine in this smothering blackness. He peered dubiously into the thick shadows. Gulping, he slowly stepped forward, clenching the hilt of the blade tightly in his clammy hands.

The silence was a roar in his ears, and his heart was shaking inside him. He worried that, from the night, some demon of Mordor might attack. He tried to assure himself that such a thought was silly, but his dread was difficult to simply dismiss. His footsteps seemed unnaturally loud as he rounded the edge of the wall. Because of the overhang above and the lean of the rocks, whatever lay behind the ridge was shrouded in impenetrable darkness. He stood still then, straining his eyes to detect movement or point of interest in the abyss, but failing. Then he leaned tiredly against the wall.

For a moment Frodo was tempted to return to Shadowfax and continue on his way. It seemed utterly foolish to wander into the area with no source of illumination. Countless dangers might await him in the shadows, and he would have no way to see their advance. Even if some clue of Sam were hidden in the obscurity, he would not be able to find it. As he pondered his choices, though, an idea came to him. He wondered then why he had not considered it before.

Trading the knife to his other hand, he dug into a pouch at his waist. For a moment he fished blindly, biting his tongue. Then his fingers brushed what he sought, and, grasping the small vial, he pulled it free from the leather. This he lifted to his eyes.

The clear liquid inside the crystal vessel glowed softly, chasing away the choking darkness. The item had been a gift to him from the Lady Galadriel. He closed his eyes, basking in the pale light, and remembered her gentle, melodic words.  _"May it be a light for you in dark places when all other lights go out."_  The Hobbit released a slow breath and opened his eyes once more. Such a great gift! She truly was a magnificent creature of unimaginable wisdom and foresight. He clenched the vial, which she had called the Light of Eärendil, tightly in his palm. He held his hand out then and watched in euphoria as the glow battled with the dark and illuminated his way.

Gradually he advanced between the leaning ridge and the massive wall. It was clear that something serious has upset the rocks, for strewn about the area were bits of stone that looked to be broken from some greater structure. Frodo glanced upward, but the light did not reach high enough above him to show him where the damage might have occurred. He was concerned for a moment that the wall had been weakened by whatever force that had caused the debris, but he had to brush aside the thought because, in the blackness, he was simply unable to determine the safety of the path. He resigned himself to this ignorance and steeled himself before continuing.

The vial he held before him shed its light silently as he walked, and his quick eyes darted from his shuffling feet to the darkness around him. His heart thundered and his arms and neck prickled with gooseflesh. The eerie quiet unnerved him. Should he call for Sam? The idea seemed so utterly ludicrous that he swallowed an unwitting laugh. There was no evidence that Sam was among these rocks, trapped, hiding, or otherwise. He imagined himself clinging to that foolish hope, that insane prayer, hollering into the idle shadows and disturbing the sleep of these rocks, pawning through the wreckage as he frantically searched for relief that was not to be found. More acutely still he vividly thought of the harsh disappointment at wasting his time, at returning to Shadowfax empty-handed. The frustration threatened once more.

Frodo closed his eyes, released a slow breath, and turned. As he did, he thought he heard something. The small creature stopped still in shock. Cold fear paralyzed him. Then he relaxed and listened. For a moment more it was silent before again the soft noise resounded through the area. Perhaps whatever caused the sound meant him harm, but for reasons he could not completely discern he found himself doubting there was danger and dismissing his fear as irrational. When a third time he heard it, he recognized it to be a scuffle, a twisted breath of fright and pain.

Once he realized this, he could not stop himself. "Sam?" His voice was a weak whisper that barely pierced the silence. Frodo felt his body shake, but he swallowed and found his resolution. "Sam?" he called again, his tone fortified and louder, echoing through the cavern.

Silence. Frodo held his breath and strained his ears. Had he been mistaken? Had his ears deceived him, his hopeful heart conjured a lie from the cold truth?

"Frodo?"

The word was nothing more than a weeping whimper. Frodo gasped. "Sam!"

Light crashed against rock violently as the Hobbit scrambled forward. Frantically he stumbled through the darkness, his rushed breath unbearably loud. The phial nearly slipped from his hands as he fumbled along the wall. "Sam, where are you?" He cursed his own harsh breath charging the air and his thundering heart, as they seemed so loud. Frodo swallowed and forced his pulse to slow. "Sam?"

The choking cry resounded off the rocks. Frodo straightened his bent form and reached forward with the light. It spread into the shadows, and the shuffling grew louder. A sniffle. The pale glow cleaved the blackness, and a friendship was restored.

"Sam!"

Frodo leapt forward and embraced his friend. Sam hugged him tightly, sobbing strong enough to shake his form. Frodo closed his eyes, burying his head into Sam's shoulder. A great moment passed in which the two Hobbits did nothing but hold one another, too shaken, too relieved, too exhausted to do anything else. They remained as such, breathing, feeling, basking in the renewed bond between them. How they had hurt! How they had worried! Brothers again reunited, tears shed in joy washing away pain and sorrow. Oh, to again feel such completion!

"Oh, Sam. Sam!" Frodo whispered, pulling away from his friend's hold. He laid a dirty hand against Sam's streaked, pale cheeks. The weak, white light of the phial made the other seem utterly ashen. "I have missed you!"

Sam gave a small smile. His lips quivered. "Mister Frodo! How did you find me?" he asked, his tone weak with emotion.

Frodo grinned in return. It seemed a massive tale, but he suddenly had energy to remember the twisted path that had carried his wearied feet since Amon Hen. He opened his mouth to speak, raising the phial to shed light upon his friend's face. As Sam's features were illuminated, his elation faded and his interest in his own story all but disappeared.

The visage before him was torn and bloody. A great bruise marred the pale skin of Sam's left cheek, and a cut upon his brow had caked his hair with dried blood. Frodo's eyes widened as he lowered the light. Sam was leaning heavily against the shadowed wall. He held his arm close to his chest and huddled. The boom in Frodo's ears abruptly faded, and the wheeze of Sam was startling and inexplicably loud.

Frodo swallowed and grasped Sam's shoulder. "You're hurt…" he gasped, feeling much of his previous euphoria fade in the face of the painful reality. "Sam, are you well? How badly are you wounded?"

Sam's face scrunched into a grimace, and a choked sob fled his lips. "Mister Frodo… Mister Frodo!" Large tears that glistened in the pale light rolled down his cheeks. "They're everywhere! I… I think I broke my leg," the quivering Hobbit moaned.

Panic pulsed through Frodo as he knelt. The limb was distended and bloody. Frodo winced as he gently peered closer. Sam had had the sense to apply a splint comprised of his short sword scabbard and his belt, and though the ripped cloth of his brown trousers was quite stained with red. Worry churned within him. He knew little about caring for wounds like these, and he was sure the trauma alone had and would continue to heavily wear upon Sam. "How long ago, Sam?" he whispered, aghast with what this horrible situation implied.

"Maybe a week," whimpered Sam, squeezing shut his eyes. "Master Gandalf left me to reach Mount Doom alone, you see. Why did he leave me? The Ringwraiths! Oh, the Ringwraiths!" The eyes were suddenly open and wide in unspeakable terror. Frodo shuddered. "They almost killed me! I ran, but I couldn't escape them… I ended up down here, like this…" Sam sucked in a shaking breath. He pressed his palm to his forehead. "I hear them, Mister Frodo," he gasped frantically. Frodo numbly watched, feeling his friend's panic slam against him with the press of total fright. "The sound of horse feet pounding against the ground is so loud! For days I've listened. They're searching for me, Frodo! Strider was right! They never stop hunting!" Once more the big tears filled the brown eyes, and Sam wept. "I've been trapped here for so long…"

Frodo's heart ached powerfully for his dear friend. He rose again and pulled Sam into his embrace once more. Sam fell into his arms willingly, and Frodo tenderly rubbed his back. The tears came unbidden and he wept without repose. This was his burden! This was the torture he had inadvertently levied upon his dearest companion! The guilt was sour and ludicrous, but in that instant it was all Frodo could feel, pummeling his dignity and his resolve with fists of iron. The shame that for weeks had tormented him suddenly became unbearable, and he could barely maintain a grip upon his composure. He took a deep breath. The twist of fate could not be changed, but he could now make amends. "You will never be alone again, Sam," he promised, tightening his grip about his friend. A few minutes passed, and Sam began to calm. Frodo pulled back and smiled weakly. Sam released a slow breath. "I promise."

Sam hesitated and then nodded slowly. Frodo's grin grew wider. "Now, come on. Let's get you out of here."

Sam sniffled. "But how, Mister Frodo?" He shook his head and lowered his gaze. A sob again threatened his tone. "I'll only slow you down. You've no chance if you take me!"

Frodo smiled once more. "Gandalf has given me a horse, Sam!"

The other regarded him in confusion and disbelief a moment. Then he wiped his face on his sleeve and sniffled again. "A horse?" The tentative voice sounded so wistful that Frodo felt overly glad that he could provide Sam with this hope.

"Yes!" he declared jovially. "He waits outside. All we need do is go out. He can take us home!"

Silence. Sam's lips twisted into a shaking smile. But the grin was quick to dissolve into a frown. "We can't go home yet, Mister Frodo." Frodo watched as his friend slide a dirty hand into the breast pocket of his jacket. Then Sam held out his palm.

Glinting in the light of the vial was the One Ring. Frodo felt his eyes drawn to it, and he suddenly could not look away as the gold shine of the band entranced him. He had almost forgotten about the Ring, and he sickly wished it could have remained as such for the return of the vile burden to his sight stirred within him feelings that both alarmed and disgusted him. He felt the soft chant return to his attention, caressing, calming, lulling. He sank into it. Idly he wondered how he could so simply return to its arms, why, after before he so detested it, he now felt such relief that it was with him once more. A sad weakness! A cruel temptation! He wanted so badly to touch it, to feel its cool metal against his finger, to submit the call. Completion. Contentment. The Ring had come home!

"Mister Frodo?"

He jerked, snapping from his trance. Sight returned. The dry cold, the pale light, the dancing shadows. His racing heart and charged breath.

Sam regarded him with concerned eyes. "Are you well, sir?"

He could not force himself to smile. Teetering was his resolve, was his very sanity he thought, but he held tight to his composure and nodded. Sam did not seem convinced, but he obviously chose to question the matter no further. He looked disdainfully at the Ring resting peacefully in his small palm before offering it to Frodo. "Shall I return it to you?"

The desire screamed within him, but Sam's worried gaze kept him tethered to his strength. He swallowed uncomfortably, resisting the urge to take the offered Ring. He was surprised at the will power the simple restraint required of him. Frodo released a held breath slowly and shook his head finally. "No." So simple. It was what he wanted, was it not? His voice sounded so weak and pathetic.  _Stop it! You do not want it! You do not!_ "You keep it, Sam." He gave a feeble grin, hoping to mask his doubt and dishonor. "You've brought it this far. It is only right."

They stood still, quiet, awkward in the moment. Frodo was terrified that Sam would detect his weakness, that his closest friend would inevitably know his lie and see through his mask. Were his words before perhaps too fast? Were they riddled with insincerity? But Sam only nodded and smiled, closing his fingers about the Ring and returning it to his pocket. Frodo breathed a sigh of relief.

He was quick to move on. The longing had quieted, but it was now awake, and he wished not to concentrate upon it. "Let's go quickly. It is nearly dawn, and I daresay there isn't much time left."

Again Sam silently affirmed his declaration. Frodo pulled his weakened friend from the rock wall. "Lean on me," he whispered, pulling Sam's uninjured arm across his shoulders.

Sam shook his head. "I left my sword back there, Mister Frodo," he admitted almost sheepishly.

Frodo glanced behind him to the shadows. It suddenly seemed incredibly claustrophobic, like a vacuum hungrily seeking to devour them. He had no wish to go back there. Instead, he offered Sam the knife. Sam accepted it hesitantly, the pommel large in his hand, and blade glowing in the pale light. His face scrunched uncertainly. "This is…" Frodo cringed as Sam looked up and regarded him with wistful eyes. "He's alive?"

He could not find it within himself to tell the truth. Sam had certainly suffered enough. Admitting his own guilt seemed utterly preposterous. He did not know if his friend could bear it, let alone if he himself could. So he nodded. And then he unwittingly embellished, because that simple gesture seemed to betray his lie. "Aragorn… he and Gimli… they saved him."

The words sounded wretched. They burned his ears with shame and guilt. But Sam's face showed him only relief and happiness. "Oh, I'm so happy to hear that! I loathed leaving Master Legolas there, that I did! He is well, then?"

Frodo bowed his head. "Yes, Sam." He forced a jovial tone into his voice. He felt a horrible, wretched monster. Who was he to betray Sam's trust? How could he so simply lie about what had happened? About what he had caused? Yet the truth seemed threatening, and he could not force himself to admit it.

"Praise be!" Sam laughed. "Maybe there's a chance yet then, Frodo! Maybe there is!"

Frodo smiled weakly and nodded. The lie hung on the air, foul and hideous. But he could not expunge it. He took Sam's uninjured arm and draped it over his neck. "Only if we find our way. Let's go."

Sam nodded then and leaned into Frodo's sturdy form. Together the two Hobbits limped and struggled to the mouth of the collapsed wall, Frodo holding the phial of Galadriel before them to light their path. Sam was breathing heavily, struggling for each step as he fought to keep weight off of his injured leg. Frodo supported him blankly, his mind in turmoil. Why had the sight of the Ring so allured him? Why had he lied? Tears burned his eyes.

They finally emerged from the rocks. Fresh air buffeted against them, and they looked to the horizon.

Golden light spread from the dawn, breaking the black clouds and splitting the night's grasp upon the land. It brought the sky to life with an ethereal glow. It seemed almost misplaced in this black land.

Frodo watched it blearily. All the days he had traveled in shadow, in twilight, in smoke. This was too little too late.

Mount Doom scorched the sky with black and blood. It rose in the distance, calling them, beckoning them. He released a slow breath. They were so close. Yet he was so tired, and felt so different. Sam smiled faintly at the dawn, perhaps at the future, but Frodo could feel no euphoria. They would ride hard. In perhaps a day they would reach the summit of the volcano. They would brave the heat, the terrain, the danger. They would suffer such terrors for the sake of this quest. And after they destroyed the Ring, would that end it? What would become of them? How would they return to the Shire? How could they? How could destroying the One Ring restore all that had been lost?

Frodo lowered his gaze. Maybe this one lie he had spoken was only a small stitch in the greatest falsehood of them all. Nothing could bring back Legolas. Nothing could undo the wrongs of Boromir, of Saruman the Wise. Many had died. Many more might should that army he had seen reached Gondor. How would destroying this silly Ring make such an atrocity right? It could not.  _Nothing could._

How pointless! How futile! The Ring's evil was wretched indeed!

Shadowfax snorted as they approached. Sam seemed awed by the magnificent beast whose coat shined vibrantly in the morning sun. Frodo remained oblivious, dark and secluded in his thoughts, as the horse again lowered himself. He numbly helped Sam mount the creature before climbing upon the sturdy back. Shadowfax seemed to have no difficulty with the increased weight, galloping effortlessly forward.

Frodo closed his eyes. He felt Sam sigh. "I'm glad you found me, Mister Frodo. The road's ahead of me, but I'm not afraid anymore."

He envied Sam's innocence, his simple loyalty, his unfettered and ignorant hopes. He wished for his friend's ease of thought! He knew why he had lied about Legolas. He had not wanted to hurt Sam like he had been hurt. He wished not to steal Sam's faith. Where was there truth beyond the cold lies of the Ring? The song was loud and comforting. Even if he were to destroy it, he knew now that that song and all its sick promises and caresses would always be a part of him.

The road was ahead of them, but Frodo had lost his way.

* * *

The great doors of the throne room of Minas Tirith creaked open loudly as the two guards pushed them. Faramir only waited for the portal to widen sufficiently before charging through, pausing to only glance at Gandalf. The sound of his heavy footsteps echoed through the room.

Denethor raised his head quickly. He had obviously been examining some parchment of great importance, though Faramir could not see its content. He was surrounded by advisors, all of which the young man recognized saving one, whose pale skin and beady eyes he found distressing and distrustful. This man, dressed in dark robes, slid behind the collection of his father's people. The rest regarded him with confused expressions, while this particular and strange being hid. It was then Faramir realized the bewilderment and apparent fear was not due to his appearance, but rather because of his companion.

Gandalf walked with none of his urgency but with a powerful air of knowledge and significance. The white robes swished across the floor, and his staff clanked against the marble with each step. He seemed serene yet taut

The Steward of Gondor rose from his chair. His old face, framed by a white beard and hair and topped with a simple crown, was lax in puzzlement. The old and knowing eyes first fell to his son. "Faramir?" A brief flash of annoyance crossed his face. "What is the meaning of this?"

"My Lord," began Faramir, irritated that he sounded so frantic and winded. He took a deep breath to compose himself. So much depended on his strength now. "Gandalf the White wishes to speak with you."

A hushed whisper went through the crowd of men. Denethor's high brow furrowed in confusion. "The White?"

Gandalf stepped forward, immediately grasping control. "Lord Denethor," he said firmly, "we have little time and much to discuss. I have become the leader of my Order, and I have come to offer you the advice of the Istari."

"Preposterous!" roared the little man as he stepped from hiding. Faramir narrowed his eyes at the unknown advisor. "Only Saruman the Wise is worthy of such a title!"

A tense moment of silence followed. Finally Denethor spoke. "Let us not bicker." He gave Gandalf an appraising look, one tinged with a bit of suspicion and even more amazement. "There were rumors of Saruman's corruption. Until now, I had doubted their veracity."

"As well you should, my Lord," spoke again the little man. Faramir disliked his audacity. "They are rumors, and nothing more."

Gandalf grunted and stepped closer. The small, pale creature visibly recoiled. "On the contrary there has been a great deal of deception in Middle Earth years past. Saruman has fallen into darkness. He now serves the Dark Lord. He has done much to stop the free peoples of this land from protecting themselves." The man cringed and retreated yet another step. Confusion entered Faramir's mind at this fearful reaction. "I do remember you, Lord Gríma, from King Théoden's court. Another name marked you then. This I remember as well. 'Wormtongue'." The man called Gríma stiffened. Others in the room remained hushed in surprise. Faramir felt he was beginning to understand. "It does strike me as strange that you should appear here in the wake of Théoden's death when Rohan clearly needed you."

Wormtongue bristled. "I have come to charge my King's murderer and protect his allies." The beady black eyes narrowed contemptuously. "Perhaps the deceit of which you speak lies not in Rohan." The accusation was starkly clear.

Gandalf was neither impressed nor shaken. Calm was his gaze as he looked to Denethor. "We have precious little time. A great, black force stirs in Mordor."

Faramir watched the muscles of his father's stern face shift and clench. "We knew of the evil afoot in Minas Morgul," he declared. There was a worried tone in his voice that Faramir had not often heard before.

Gandalf's face was remorseful. "There is a much more than that. Sauron rises. The fateful day is not long off now, and we must move quickly to fortify this city. An army of Orcs and ghouls grows in the east, pushing closer, bent with rage and ambition. Their intent is Gondor."

Silence. Denethor sighed, lowering his head. "It is true, then," he murmured. When he again met Gandalf's gaze, his eyes were glazed in tightly controlled fear and panic. "The rumors of the dark force rising are true. They will march to Gondor, you say?"

Gandalf nodded. "Undoubtedly. They will seek to destroy men, to knock the foundation from the defense against Mordor. From there they will ravage Rohan and Lórien. Rivendell and Mirkwood."

"You have come here to tell us this?" asked one of the other advisors shortly. Faramir stared at the man a moment, struggling to put a name to the face. When he could not, he simply brushed it aside.

"I have come," Gandalf amended, "to ferret out the hand of Saruman in this court. A great disservice has been done to you, Lord Denethor. A lie spoken by a most cunning and creative deceiver has wrongly corrupted you and placed an innocent man in jail."

Denethor had grown frustrated. His eyes flashed with anger. "There is no proof that the heir of Isildur is innocent!" he roared.

Faramir bolstered himself. "Father, Boromir is not dead," he declared evenly. He tried very hard to rid his voice of his emotion, but he heard his own sorrow.  _Perhaps he lives,_  he thought sadly.  _But he bore the look of a tormented man._ "He is alive."

"A lie!" shouted Wormtongue. Faramir shot the man a harsh glare. It was enough apparently to quell the advisor's defensive rage. "Your mind, wrought with grief and anger, may have tricked you, my Lord."

"It was neither trick nor delusion. I saw him. My eyes deceived me not."

Denethor regarded his son with surprise and dismay. "Where?"

"Not far from Cirith Ungol, my Lord." Faramir lowered his eyes, knowing again the plaintive power of Boromir's wild gaze upon him, hearing those desperate words, feeling the grasp of strong hands shaking in panic upon him. "He was well, but extremely distressed. I do not know why." The lie hurt him. He did know why. He just did not have the heart or the power to tell his father to step down.

His father ignored his moment of weakness. Cold, confused eyes turned to Wormtongue. "What say you of this, Lord Gríma?" he asked tightly.

The little, pasty man appeared rattled. Faramir found himself pleased by the sight. "Surely there has been some mistake. My eyes as well played no mischief upon me!"

Faramir could not stand his lies. "There was no mistake," he hissed.

"You are tired, my Lord. Weary and tense. Great evil has spread through Minas Morgul. Perhaps you came upon the foul work of another, a spell that created the most vivid imagining," Wormtongue offered. His voice dripped in innocent conjecture.

"For what purpose?" Denethor asked. Faramir could not detect from his father's tone whether or not he agreed with what Wormtongue proposed.

The pale face grew wide with mock surprise. "Is it not obvious?" The man raised his hands, his dark robe swishing with the movement. "The son of Arathorn seeks to usurp the throne! Should you release him, he will immediately betray you! A man in a covenant with Elves! Please consider what I say, my Lord, for it is truth. Isildur's blood has lost its power!" The man nearly snarled, bearing yellowing teeth. "He was raised by Elves, named as their hope. He is friend to them, not to men. He will readily seize Gondor from those who rightly possess it!"

Gandalf gripped his staff tightly. "Such rubbish! The Elves pose no threat to men. The Last Alliance holds true, as strong here as it was upon the slopes of Mount Doom!" His dark eyes narrowed. "If you stand divided when the forces of Sauron march upon you, you will fall."

Wormtongue visibly bristled. "If you trust the Firstborn, they will betray you!"

Gandalf glared violently upon the small man, whose words seemed far too big given his stature. "The Elves gain nothing through betrayal. They cannot defeat Sauron alone."

"And if they do not seek to defeat?" asked another of the steward's advisors. "An army of wood Elves marches south. We cannot contend with both Mirkwood and Mordor!"

The wizard's face was taut. "Mirkwood's king sent his own son as a member of the Fellowship! A father does not sacrifice lightly! Would you have the Ring destroyed, my Lord?"

Denethor's eyes again flashed with anger. Their burning was not as bright this time, however. "Of course! I would not have otherwise sent my eldest to the House of Elrond!" he vehemently declared. Faramir watched his father twist the argument, seeking to pull some sense from the convoluted tales before him. "But that is not reason enough to trust. The Nine Walkers have failed. I know not the nature of their fall, and because I cannot blame, I cannot absolve."

"The fault of the Fellowship lies not with the Elf," remarked Gandalf coolly. "The corruption of the One Ring has always been the bane of man."

 _"If this is a madness that drives me, it is one of my own making."_  Boromir's words resounded through Faramir's mind. His heart suddenly hurt, and his head spun. The truth hit him with little mercy. While he lingered in a daze of despair, the conflict thundered forth. Yet he did not hear the thunder of voice. The room had erupted into a flurry of shouting, but he could not comprehend the words. The gravity of what he had just realized was too powerful. Boromir's panic. Boromir's guilty eyes. Bloody hands and desperate words. He understood why his brother had asked such things of him. Terribly he understood everything.

He snapped from his reverie and focused once more. The men were arguing loudly, the angry accusations filling the chamber. To his father he looked. And the epiphany gave him courage to speak the truth. "Father," he said softly. When that did not attract Denethor's attention, he raised his voice. "Father!"

There was silence. The old steward turned to look upon him with the same tired, proud eyes by which he had so many times been awed in the past. The words fled his mouth without another thought. "I say this with no disrespect." He took a deep breath. "You must abdicate the throne."

The stillness grew tighter, stifling. The room seemed to linger in a state of shock. For a moment, Faramir himself could not even believe what he had said to be real. Such treason!

Denethor's eyes gained a hard glint, and the aged face pressed into a frown that tested Faramir's resolve. The shock was slow to recede, and his father chose not to speak. The emptiness pushed Faramir into explanation. He dropped humbly to one knee and bowed his head, lowering his gaze. "That is what Boromir wanted me to say." The last statement was soft, but seemed unreasonably loud in the hush.

Denethor spoke lowly. "Do you believe that is right?"

He could not lie. "No."

"Then what do you believe?"

Faramir sighed gently. "I do not know what I believe, but I do believe in him." He raised his eyes slowly. "Father, I would not say this if I thought it foolery! Boromir surely had his reasons, and I trust that."

The silence was supreme. Faramir watched his father's eyes glaze with betrayal and confusion. When this happened, his resolve wavered. The pain upon Denethor's face was unmistakable. Yet he spoke without heat. "Boromir told you this?"

"Surely not!" cried Wormtongue. "There is usury afoot here, my Lord! Deceit bears the mask of truth and love!"

Gandalf voice flared, and his eyes blazed. "Still your manipulations, Wormtongue! You shall no longer hold sway in this court!"

But Wormtongue would not be dissuaded. "My Lord, please, this is the hand of Sauron, I assure you!" he implored earnestly.

The steward's voice turned icy. "Be wary of your words, Lord Gríma, for you accuse my son."

Wormtongue closed his mouth and respectfully bowed his head. "Forgive me, oh Lord. I speak only for your protection." Faramir felt his hatred for this man simmer as he glared upon him. This advisor was little more than a snake, slithering about under camouflage of loyalty, preparing to strike. The esteem he displayed towards Denethor seemed a rouse, riddled with fake admiration and hidden intentions.

Silence descended once more. Long shadows were stretching across the room, dark and deep. Faramir released a slow breath, struggling to maintain a grasp on his floundering composure. He suddenly felt horridly weary and rotten.

Denethor stood. All eyes fell to him, waiting for his opinion on what had been said. The aging man looked worn by the weight of the situation. Above all, he seemed pressed by the choice. By the betrayal. "I… I must think on this in private."

The silence endured, and the words hurt. Faramir cringed inwardly as his father quickly passed, as though the brush of air held a touch of doubt, of anger, of disappointment. "Faramir," came a mumble, "see that our guest receives proper attendance."

"Yes, Father," he whispered weakly.

Then Denethor reached the door. The soldiers pulled it open with the same heavy, loud creak, and his long strides carried him through the portal.

The chamber remained in silence. Faramir bowed his head sadly and fought against the tide of disgust and shame within him. He began to doubt the veracity of what he had proposed and his reasons in even proposing it. He felt a strong, comforting hand fall upon his shoulder. He knew Gandalf was offering him silent support, but even this did not assuage his guilt.

Anger burst inside him, and he looked up. Wormtongue stood stiffly. The golden light of sunset spilled through the windows, but even that could not remove the aura of cruelty and lies that clung to the man. Faramir gave him a harsh glare, but Wormtongue's black eyes were distant, and he did not notice.

Distant with unspeakable malice.

* * *

Thunder rattled Minas Tirith that night, and Faramir could not sleep. He lay in bed, watching the bright bolts of white and blue streak the sky through the window of his room. Each flash filled his eyes with specters and ghosts of the past, of things he wished undone, of lost chances. It pierced his peace, the booming of his guilt shaking his composure as the thunder did the windowpanes. The young man gave a shaking, frustrated sigh and rolled over. His brother's image would not let him rest.

Faramir pulled a pillow over his head to blot out the horrible brightness. Then he drew in shuddering breaths until this heart ceased its racing. Upon this he concentrated. A bit of clarity came to him and he closed his eyes. It was silent now. Perhaps he could quickly fall asleep in this brief tranquility. There was much yet to do, and he needed all of his energy. He was utterly exhausted. Perhaps he could simply drift away…

There again came thunder, but this was much louder and closer. A fist slamming upon his door. A voice shouting. Though the heavy oak muffled them, the words were clear. "Lord Faramir! Lord Faramir, sir!"

Faramir shot up in bed, ripping from his doze. His frantic eyes fell to the locked door, and he scrambled from beneath the blankets. His uncoordinated feet stumbled in the dark as he lurched across the room. Frantic hands opened it.

A winded soldier appeared bearing a burning torch. Sweat glistened upon a pale face tight with fear and anger. "My Lord, you must come quickly! It is your father!"

It struck him. His heart halted in its strenuous beat. He could not breathe. Maybe the world lost substance, lost purpose, lost meaning. He lingered in a moment where there was naught but shock and dismay, and his body became to him but ice in the face of the sun. Helpless.

Yet he was moving, flying down the hall. His hands had grabbed his sword. His body had moved without direction. The darkness was thick and heavy, broken by vicious flashes and the bobbing of fire ahead. He was lost to it. Trapped inside his mind, there was only the furious sun and the horrible realization. The truth that he had been too blind to see. Too foolish! Ai, too selfish!

A great commotion grew ahead. Many men were gathered about his father's room. Some were idly standing guard with expressions of guilt plastered upon tired faces. Others whispered and wondered. Desperately he pushed his way through. Those nearest the door saw him approach and parted.

He burst inside.

Gandalf looked to him sadly. Wise eyes aged in experience were warm with sorrow. "It is too late," he softly declared.

Blackness spread across the room. One old candle burned quietly. Spilt wine. Shattered glass. Lightning splashed Faramir's sight with blaring white.

There, on the floor beside his favorite reading chair, lay his father. Faramir regarded the form quizzically, knowing deep inside the cold fact of it but simply unable to acknowledge it. In the weak yellow light he saw red spreading across the floor. Closed eyes. Pale face. Unmoving lips. No!

The scream of despair never fled his lips. He fell to his knees beside the dead Denethor, the tears rushing from his burning eyes. With shaking hands he pulled the limp body to him. Perhaps there was yet breath! Perhaps there was yet a chance! But his father was gone from this world, his eyes sealed tightly shut as if to now guard him from the perils of life. As if to grant him the peace of eternal sleep. Rest for a life spent serving the good of his people.

The blood washed over Faramir's hands. He closed his eyes and his body shook. There came a rage he had never before felt inside him, a rancorous anger powered by sorrow and guilt and regret. Never would he speak words of apology. Never again would he know the pride of his father's loving gaze, or hear a word of encouragement. His strong and glorious father!

There suddenly had to be an explanation. There had to be a reason! "Who did this?" he hissed, venom dripping from his tone.

The same soldier that had woken him lowered his eyes. "I am so sorry, my Lord. The Lord Gríma came and requested an audience." Slowly another soldier, this man covered in blood, extended his hand. Resting in the palm was a dagger of simple creation. The sharp blade was covered in red gore. Lightning flashed and the wicked weapon gleamed sadistically. "The make is clearly of Rohan." He gave it to Faramir.

The weapon felt hard and horrible. Hot with his father's blood. Cold with its crime. The rage became uncontrollable, slamming against his restraint, battering his guilty heart. He realized he had already known the identity of the perpetrator. It was so obvious! The lies, the anger, the hate and manipulation… that look. Faramir had done nothing! Nothing!

He rose quickly. "Where is he now?" he demanded. The soldiers flinched. When they refused to respond, he bellowed, "Where?"

"We lost him, sir. He eluded us in the shadows."

He slammed his fist upon the old table over which he had so many times in the past shared conversation with his family.  _His family._ "Seal off all of Minas Tirith! I want him found! He shall not escape Gondor!"

The men snapped to attention, startled by their master's uncharacteristic anger. They skittered off, anxious to make right their mistakes. The thunder boomed with falling feet.

Faramir stood still, stiff. Then he snapped. He slammed the bloody dagger into the table. And for a moment he only breathed.

Silence.

_"If this is a madness that drives me, it is one of my own making."_

_It is now my madness as well._

_"I have done him a great disservice. I pray he may never come to know of it."_

_He never will._

_"If you will not trust Aragorn, then trust me. I have never before led you astray."_

He felt Gandalf behind him. Felt the weight of what he must do. Felt the purpose of the world again. In that understanding, some peace came again to him. "Come," he said softly, drawing strength from his burden. "Let us make the way of things right again."


	22. A Nightmare Within

Footsteps. Steady. Echoing down the hall. Growing louder and louder. People were coming.

Aragorn opened his eyes. He leaned up from the wall of the cell and peered into the darkness, not believing his ears. For days they had been shunned from attention aside from the guards assigned to stand post in the dungeon and the occasional servants bringing their meals. Wary excitement sliced through the blanket of sleep, and he rose.

Haldir turned to him. He had hardly noticed the tall Elf standing beside the jail door in the poor light. "Something is horribly wrong," the Lórien archer breathed quietly, meeting his gaze. Long arms were folded over his chest. Calmly he looked again out into the darkened hall. "A shadow has fallen over Minas Tirith."

Confusion tickled Aragorn as he stepped closer, coming to rest beside the Elf. The snoring of the Hobbits seemed unbearably loud, but even it could not drown out the steady strike of feet upon stone. The ranger held his breath, unable to worry or concentrate on anything but that sound. Waiting and hoping that it would not suddenly disappear. For days he had done nothing but that: wait and hope. Was it possible that it was over?

The torchlight flickered furiously. Behind the Hobbits were sleepily stirring, and Gimli shushed them. Aragorn gripped the cold bars, forcing a bit of patience to calm his racing heart and burning breath. He could not now lose his composure.

Footsteps. Louder. So close now.

A flash of white. A staff clanking. The shadows parted.

Aragorn gasped. Could it be? Surely it seemed impossible!

"Gandalf!" cried Pippin.

The old wizard's calm face broke into a great smile, and Aragorn felt weak in the knees. If not for the same wise eyes and ancient aura of compassion and confidence, the ranger might have doubted the truth, for the great being before him had undergone a massive transformation. Grey had become white. The mass of tangled salt and pepper hair had become lighter than snow, and it shone brightly in the darkness. Aragorn recognized the pale robe and iron staff that bore the markings of Orthanc. They were the signs of the leader of the Istar order. Gandalf had become the White.

Though this alone was massively astounding, it could not shadow the shear shock at seeing his fallen companion again among them. A thousand questions raced through his mind, but he could pay none their due, for a strange stupor of paralyzing surprise and relief had claimed him. He stood, watching numbly, as one of the guards jabbed a key into the lock. With a twist and a clank, they were free.

Haldir pushed open the door just in time to avoid being run over as Merry and Pippin charged by him with pounding glee. They launched themselves at Gandalf, and the wizard gave a hearty laugh, his face open and warm, as he engulfed them in his seemingly giant embrace. The two Hobbits were talking rapidly, babbling in high tones about how very happy they were to see Gandalf, wondering how the wizard had survived, ecstatically regaling the entire tale since Amon Hen in the space of a few minutes. Gandalf smiled and patted each upon their shoulders, speaking in hushed tones. Whatever he said clearly calmed Merry since he hushed his feverish questions and declarations and pinched Pippin when his cousin did not quiet his own.

Gandalf rose to his full height as Aragorn and Haldir stepped outside the prison cell. Though they were of equal stature, Aragorn had always found the old wizard to be an imposing and intimidating force. "Much has happened, Aragorn," the Istar stated simply. There was a hint of sadness in the warm voice, and that subtle intimation spoke volumes of the loss the Fellowship had endured.

The ranger could not cast aside his curiosity. "Gandalf, how did you-"

The warm smile. "That, my dear friend, is a tale best left for another time. There is much to do."

There came a grumble behind him, and Aragorn turned. Gimli shuffled forward, his dark eyes glowing in the yellow torchlight. "It much warms my heart to see you well, Gandalf!" he declared. Yet in his tone there was also the hidden voice of grief. Aragorn understood it well, for it pierced his own heart with a pain suddenly acute and unbearable. This was a piece of the Fellowship, once lost and now returned. Still there was much that was gone forever.

The wizard appraised the Dwarf with jovial eyes. "Aye, Master Dwarf. It has been too long." Unspoken guilt pinched his regretful voice. His eyes twinkled brightly then. "Haldir of Lórien."

The tall, lithe Elf bowed slightly. "Mithrandir."

The great wizard turned as they assembled outside the cell. "I had hoped the Lady of the Golden Wood would aid the Fellowship where I could not. Her wisdom is powerful indeed to send such a mighty warrior."

The Elf took the compliment as he did most things. He merely nodded, without smile or blush, and held his gaze calmly. Aragorn found his tranquility particularly infuriating at that instance, envious of the archer's cool composure when the ranger himself was drowning in wave after wave of pounding emotion.

He voiced the first question that came to mind. "How did you convince the Steward of my innocence?" he asked incredulously as the wizard turned and began to walk down the darkened hall that had for days seemed the impossible freedom. Aragorn leapt to catch up.

"I must give credit where credit is due. It is none of my own doing." Gandalf drew to a stop at the end of the hall. There it widened to a darkened chamber, clearly the mess hall for the soldiers of Minas Tirith. He gestured to a man standing among the company of guards. Aragorn regarded him with quick but inquisitive eyes. At first the stranger remained just that, for his face seemed young and unfamiliar. He bore a light beard that hid a strong jaw and thin lips. His eyes glowed with an intensity that struck him oddly, though. Upon closer inspection, he began to place the powerful gaze and highbrow. When he did, confusion and a bit of amazement overcame him.

The young man spoke first. "I am Faramir, son of Denethor, brother to Boromir." His voice held much that Aragorn could not unravel. It seemed clenched, tight with fury and grief. The ranger stood erect before the lord, watching as the yellow light licked across his face. "My father is dead."

For a moment, Aragorn doubted he had heard correctly. The utter finality of the words and the cold glimmer of Faramir's eyes dismissed the silly hope that somehow the truth was a falsehood. "Dead?" he stammered, idly surprised at the weakness in his own voice.

A hand fell upon his shoulder, and he turned quickly. Gandalf squeezed him briefly as he stepped between the ranger and the lord. Faramir watched the wizard with suspicious yet yearning eyes, as if hoping Gandalf might somehow restore a faith tarnished. Aragorn found himself praying that the wizard might.

"A great crime has been done to Gondor this black eve. This powerful nation has lost a ruler both wise and noble. A son has lost a father. Middle Earth has lost a valuable ally." His voice dropped gently. "Yet from the ashes of deceit rises the truth. We cannot stand divided when the black forces of Sauron wage their war upon us."

Faramir released a long breath. It seemed to shake the very room. Aragorn watched him intently and began to understand the pressure upon the young man's shoulders. The weight of an ailing nation had abruptly come to him. "This I know, Gandalf, though it was not your words that convinced me." The young man looked up and met Aragorn's gaze. The ranger blinked, trying hard to decipher the expression in the other's eyes, and finding himself only reminded of Boromir. "Whatever wrong he did you, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, he has amended."

Aragorn felt uncertain. "You have seen him?" he asked quietly.

Faramir offered no apology or comfort. "I have," he stated coldly. "He was a man driven by guilt. I know that now." Their gazes locked, each analyzing the other for truth, for understanding. "I have set you free because the Last Alliance cannot falter. I alone have not the power to ensure its strength. The great army of horrid Orcs pushes west from Mordor. They will be upon us shortly, and we need the aid of the Firstborn. For this reason, I will step down." His sword exited his sheath with a clear ring. "I respectfully submit myself to your command." With that, Faramir lowered himself to one knee, lifting his sword with both hands as an offering to his king.

Aragorn stared in shock for a moment, the scene before him painfully reminiscent of the day upon Helm's Deep when the repentant Boromir had done the same. A chilly guilt rattled his resolve, and he drifted in the sharp memory for a moment. Then there came a loud chime of metal sliding against metal. He pulled from his reverie.

The legion of soldiers within the chamber knelt, following their lord's lead. Bowing to their commander. Giving their swords and their lives to their leader. The blood of Númenor restored!

Aragorn released a shuddering breath, his eyes traveling the darkened room in disbelief. In that instance, he could only stare. His birthright lingered before him, open and endless in its possibility. He had often wondered what this moment might be like upon starless evenings in Rivendell or eventless hunts in Mirkwood. The selfish exile shattered. He had expected himself to perhaps feel lost, frightened, or perhaps resigned. Yet here it had come, and he knew the reality of the promise. It was glorious, as warm as the sun. His heart pulsed in euphoria. He was king!

And yet he did not understand. He could not accept this wonderful gift without knowing the reason behind its offering. "Why?" he whispered. It was all he could manage, so taken aback by the happening.

Faramir looked up. The hard glint of his eyes had melted into a sad glimmer. "Boromir bade me to trust you. I will do as my brother asks. He… he has never before led me astray." The young man again lowered his gaze. "He loved Gondor above all, Aragorn. In this, he and my father were most alike. Thus, I do not give this to you lightly." The guilt became nearly unbearable. "Despite his crimes, my brother is a great man." Faramir sighed gently. "I will do him proud, for I doubt I will ever see him again."

The knowledge was powerful indeed. Aragorn bit the inside of his cheek. Inside him a wound began to close. The fire of his anger waned just a bit in the cooling water of Faramir's words. He had been quick to judge out of worry and fury. It was not a mistake that he might ever admit or even amend. Hasty words and ignorant actions left scars not always visible but never forgettable.

Boromir wounded him horribly. He had wounded them all. Aragorn never imagined himself forgiving that. Yet he was not so cold-hearted to ruin the sacred bond of trust and respect between brothers. He only clasped the other upon the shoulder. Earnestly he spoke. "I will not fail you." Faramir met his gaze. "And I will not forget him."

It was a vow laden with strength and resolution. Aragorn stood still, watching Faramir intently. When the young lord nodded his consent, the ranger closed his eyes briefly. The wound was at least beginning to heal.

There came a cry behind them. Men scrambled and a hushed gasp went through the crowd. Aragorn felt Haldir tense, and the Elf narrowed his dark eyes dangerously. The ranger returned his gaze forward and saw Faramir rise. To the lord's rear, the soldiers parted and through them approached guards garbed in sodden clothing. Rainwater dripped to growing puddles at their feet. Their haggard faces glowed with proud triumph.

They pulled forward a prisoner. A sodden black cloak clung to pasty skin that glistened wetly. Though the small, hunched man sought to hide his face, the guards would not permit it and shoved him forward most unceremoniously. Black, beady eyes lodged in sockets too large frightfully looked up. Then the little man cringed yet again.

Aragorn recognized him immediately. When he did, he began to understand what had happened this late night in Gondor, and the realization burned anger into him.

"My Lord," one of the soldiers gasped, somewhat winded, "we found him. He had made it to the stables, but one of the hands thought him suspicious and would not saddle him a horse. When he attempted to steal one, the boy held him at bay with a dagger until we arrived."

"See that the lad is commended," Faramir ordered coolly. In the young man's eyes burned a violent rage Aragorn had not often seen. To the quivering man he turned, and the ranger saw powerful fingers tighten about the hilt of his blade. "Who sent you?" he growled. Wormtongue only cringed, attempting somehow to withdraw protectively into himself. With the bright torches held about him, there were no shadows to conceal his treachery.

Faramir had lost his patience. "Who sent you, demon?" he bellowed. The sword flashed up, glowing in the golden illumination like a spark of lightning. It came to rest dangerously before Wormtongue's dark eyes. "Do not test my patience, lest you will know the wrath of this blade!"

The man yelped. "It was Saruman who directed me to Denethor's court. Yet it was not for him that I killed the Steward!"

Faramir's eyes flashed murderously. Aragorn could see that the young man was quickly abandoning his control. The ranger then intervened. "Why then, you snake? To what end did his death serve? Clearly you sought to imprison me to destroy the Last Alliance!" Aragorn shook his head in frustrated confusion. "Slaying Denethor surely did not aid that goal!"

Wormtongue gave a snicker. The tone was tinged with a cold insanity. "Silly children! Do you think that I would stand idly by and allow Saruman to gain such power? Turning man upon Elf only furthered his goals! Mine were something a bit different."

Aragorn glanced at Gandalf, but the wizard's face was cool and impassive. "You seek not the One," the ancient wizard declared softly. His sad voice seemed more a rumble.

"Ha!" laughed Wormtongue. "The One Ring, the lesser Ring, is beyond us all now! The Elf prince made sure of that!" Aragorn flinched. He ground his teeth. "None can change the course of its fate! Foolish wizard! The Wise sees only what he wishes to see!" Wormtongue's eyes gleamed in madness. The vile sickness of greed! "There are Rings of Power yet in Middle Earth. The Dark Lord will again bind all the free peoples in darkness! With another Ring I shall stand unscathed!"

"You fool!" roared Gandalf. His glare was vicious in disgust and anger. "It is through those Rings that the Deceiver exerts his power! You would be the instrument of his wrath!"

Wormtongue only laughed, obviously forsaking the truth in his madness. His reality had obviously been twisted beyond any comprehension. "The Last Alliance will flounder. The Firstborn will perish! The Rings shall come free from their bearers!" The small man cackled with searing evil. Aragorn felt his insides shake in rage at Wormtongue's duplicity. "The last king! Ha! You are too late! It is all in vain!" He hissed almost delightfully. "Had the old Steward kept his peace, he would have never discovered my intentions. The words of a son perhaps outweigh all other advices."

Faramir shook in rage. "You animal!"

But Wormtongue only rambled more, his tone now sad and calm. Regretful. "Murder of a man in self-defense is pardonable. But the murder of a lord? What allots such higher worth? I have been but an advisor, a teller of truths and a worker of knowledge. To others I have given a life of groveling! Yet in this plot I was my own lord. For that, the old Steward sought me punished. His penance I have indeed escaped. Yours I suspect I will now endure." The dark eyes appeared watery. "The end is near. It is near because I have made it so! Do not ever forget that it was I who changed the course of Middle Earth!"

It became too much for Faramir. With a cry of absolute fury and sorrow, the young man raised his sword. Aragorn grimaced inwardly as it the blade screamed across and sliced Wormtongue's deceitful head from his shoulders with a splash of dark blood. There was a squishy thud and those beady, black eyes disappeared into the shadows.

The room was silent then save for Faramir's heavy breathing. He stood taut, licked by the yellow light of the torches, erect in ire. Aragorn lowered his distant eyes. The truth burned within him, and he ached for the death of Denethor. To lose such a great man over such a trifle greed! He cursed Saruman and Wormtongue. The black workings of the Ring! Would they never be free of them?

"Another Ring of Power…" came a murmur from behind him. He turned, his thoughts fading slowly.

Haldir raised his head. Clouded eyes that glowed in the torchlight suddenly became wide. A frantic look crawled into the stoic gaze. "He meant Nenya, the Lady's Ring! He intended to attack Lothlórien!"

A hushed gasp went through the group. Aragorn stiffened and his mind rushed. It made horrible sense. Why Wormtongue had questioned Haldir about his appearance in Rohan. The demon's last foul claims. He had surmised Galadriel's power from Haldir's timely arrival and sought to obtain the Ring of Power for himself. With the great and dangerous battle nearly upon them, the Elves of the Golden Wood would be distracted. If the Last Alliance shattered, they might become defenseless. Panic pulsed in his heart. Ai, for the great Golden Wood! He thought of Arwen, for her kin were among those living in the beautiful ancient trees beside the Nimrodel. He loathed her despair at their loss.

"Can he do that?" asked Merry incredulously.

"Surely he would have already settled plans for an attack," murmured Gimli angrily.

"The Lady and Lord would protect it!" Pippin shouted. His voice was unwittingly wistful.

Faramir suddenly spoke. "Perhaps not," he declared quietly. He wiped his bloody blade upon the sodden cloak covering Wormtongue's body. Then he slid the sword back into its sheath and turned. He met Aragorn's gaze firmly. "A legion of Elves marches to Minas Tirith," he stated simply.

Confused, Aragorn asked, "Of what colors?"

"Mirkwood, I believe," Faramir responded. The young man lowered his gaze almost sheepishly. "I regret I do not know more. Reports indicate they will reach the city on the morrow."

Preposterous thoughts pounded through Aragorn's muddled mind. His guilt demanded that they have his attention. Could King Thranduil have sent his forces south to search for his son? Surely the prejudiced accusations of Astaldogald could not be the message of his father! He grew fearful of what might happen. Fearful of finding words to say. It seemed silly and insignificant compared to the dangers approaching, but he could not dismiss these feelings of dread and anxiety!

"One must ride to Lórien." Haldir's tight voice pulled him to the present. The Elf looked to the ranger. Aragorn saw a rare mix of fright and anger swirl in the archer's eyes. He had never beheld Haldir so utterly torn. "We must somehow warn them!"

"One must," Gimli grumbled in disgust. The Dwarf shook his head darkly. "Go, crazy Elf!"

Silence. Haldir narrowed his eyes. "I will not," commented the Elf softly. "Those are not my orders."

Aragorn opened his mouth to speak, but an enraged Gimli beat him to the words. His angry tone echoed through the dark chamber. "Fool! Would you see your homeland ravaged by men?" Haldir stood stiffly, but he lowered his stoic gaze in shame. Gimli released the archer from his fiery gaze and grunted harshly. "Well, if you will not go to them, then I shall!"

Aragorn was nearly taken aback. The thought of separation from Gimli seemed foreign and unreal. Impossible. He had never pictured these final moments in the fight against evil without the rough but endearing Dwarf at his side. Gimli was such a constant companion. Below his gruff exterior, he had a heart bigger than any and a might just as great. Aragorn could not fathom continuing this horrid battle without him!

In those brief minutes of shocked stupor, the thought became something more, something disheartening. Losing Gimli, he sadly realized, was perhaps the final step. Just as shattering a nightmare was the thought of standing now without Legolas' cool words and steadfast devotion. To that sad fact he had become acclimated. It seemed a sad thing to think, but there was undeniable truth in it. This battle between men and the dark, between Gondor and Mordor… it was his to fight. The weight of a kingdom had come to his shoulders and his alone. It was the burden of his blood, of Isildur's tarnished legacy. Perhaps he was not meant to bear it in the company of friends. A truer test if any!

The argument had continued in his silence. "I'm not going to stand here and let Lórien be destroyed!" roared Merry. For one so small, he held a great voice of conviction. "We're coming too, right, Pip?"

The smaller Hobbit seemed a bit unsure. His inquisitive eyes glanced to Gandalf and then to Aragorn, as if seeking permission. Aragorn swallowed his desperation. "Go, my friends. Lórien needs you more than I."

Haldir resolutely shook his head. "I cannot."

It was enough to rid Gimli of his restraint. The Dwarf huffed angrily, his face bright red. "Stupid Elf! Have you no love? Can you be so cold and heartless?" Haldir's long face grew taut and pale. "I know you feel such things as remorse and worry! Yet you choose to hide behind a stoic mask!" Gimli shook his head in disgust. "You are an infallible warrior, Haldir of Lórien, but your vulnerability is plain to all who know you. You simply do not allow yourself to feel!" Haldir flinched. "That makes you weaker than anyone."

The Elf could stand the lecture no longer. "Quiet your rough tongue, son of Glóin! You know little and speak far too much!" he snapped.

"I know enough," Gimli retorted, "and I understand far better than you think. I once thought all Elves to be haughty, contemptuous creatures. Never would I allow myself to trust them, for my father suffered and was humiliated at the hands of the King of Mirkwood. I would rather die than see the fate of Middle Earth fall into the hands of an Elf!" The Dwarf's eyes then cooled, and he lowered his voice. "Alas, such were the thoughts of an ignorant creature! And it was the Lady Galadriel, in all her beauty and wisdom, who taught me to see them for their folly! Through her simple ways I could trust Legolas and he could trust me. Trust becomes fellowship. Fellowship becomes brotherhood." Aragorn released a slow breath as Gimli paused. The Dwarf's words warmed his heart in ways he had not expected. Haldir stood stiffly, but his face was beginning to soften. "I owe her much. She calmed the fires of my heart. Thus, I can let no harm come to her."

"It is not so simple, Dwarf! As much as it pains me to say, Lórien is inconsequential in the coming battle!" Haldir answered. The tone of his voice betrayed his insecurity. "The defining fight will occur here! This is where I will be needed!"

The frustrated anger was quick to return. "You damnable Elf! How can you feel loyalty to a man when you feel none for your own kin?"

Haldir's cold expression shattered in anger. Aragorn stepped forward, quick to intervene before the Elf and the Dwarf hurtled more than scathing words at one another. "Please," he said quietly. Then he turned calm eyes to Haldir. "Go, Haldir, I beg of you. You have completed your task. I will not allow the Last Alliance to fail."

The Elf dropped his tone and stepped closer to the ranger. "Aragorn," he began. It was the first time that the Lórien archer had ever addressed him so informally. "You know as well as I that one warrior can make the difference between defeat and triumph."

"Surely," answered Aragorn, "but that is more true of Lórien than here.  _You_  know as well as I that your people are few. If Thranduil has sent his army to Gondor, Mirkwood cannot protect Lórien. They need your quick eye and steady hand."

Haldir seemed to linger in uncertainty for a few minutes. Aragorn could not truthfully blame him. Although to Gimli it seemed an obvious decision, Haldir was a creature of pride and discipline. It was not so difficult to understand his reasoning. By aiding Aragorn in these pivotal hours, he believed he would better accomplish the Lady's goals. Still, though Aragorn had come to value Haldir's skills greatly, it would put ranger's mind at ease to know such a powerful fighter was attending to Lórien. It would not do him well to be concerned over the Golden Wood when there was more than enough in Gondor to worry him.

Then the Elf's face collapsed into what Aragorn believed to be weary defeat. "You are right, son of Arathorn. Forgive me my lapse of logic," he said softly.

"Nay, Haldir," Aragorn answered, "there is nothing to forgive. You have been a most able guide these weeks past, and I thank you. I would much value your aid now, but the cost is great. Losing the Golden Wood is not a price I think any are willing to pay."

Haldir met his gaze, his keen eyes clouded in private thought. Then they regained their clear precision and serious confidence. "Right, then. Will Lord Faramir return our mounts and weapons?" he asked, looking behind Aragorn to the young man.

The lord looked distant for a moment, lost in sorrowful thought. Then he shook his head as if to clear it and answered quickly, "Surely. But I must suggest that you wait out the night here in Minas Tirith. A fearsome storm ravages the land, and travel will surely be treacherous." He regarded them apologetically.

Gimli watched Haldir as the Elf quickly pondered the matter. "I would rather not wait," he said finally. "Yet if you think it wise, Lord Faramir, I will not doubt that course. It would be folly to endanger our horses and ourselves on dangerous roads."

Aragorn was surprised at Haldir's submission. Perhaps the Lórien Elf was indeed learning to trust and struggling to reach a compromise between whom he was and what he needed to do. He had come to value their companionship, the ranger realized, and he did not want to make this journey in solitude. A spot of light in these dark times!  _Trust becomes fellowship. Fellowship becomes brotherhood._ Such camaraderie could not be broken.

Gandalf's deep voice tore him from his thoughts. "I suggest rest, friends. There is little more we can do this night, and our hearts are weary. A time of great peril threatens, and we must take reprieve when available." The old wizard regarded Aragorn with sympathetic eyes. "Tomorrow will see much."

The ranger quickly realized the truth in his old comrade's words. His own body felt leaden with stiff exhaustion, and all that had occurred had muddled his mind. "Of course, Gandalf," he agreed.  _Tomorrow will see too much._

Aragorn's exhaustion became consuming. His mind fled to a strange plane of weary apathy. He felt detached from his body as he moved through the world. There were people moving, speaking, but his senses could not penetrate the haze. Blankly his eyes settled on the corpse of Wormtongue. The shadows had nearly swallowed the traitor's form. At Faramir's orders, one of the soldiers grabbed the little man's legs and lugged the cadaver from the room. The thick, red blood seemed to stain the stone as it trailed into the blackness.

He closed his eyes and swallowed. He doubted very much he would find rest that night.

* * *

Hatred.

Fear.

Pain.

Horrible pain. Terrible anguish. A shadow blacker than night. Deeper than death. Coldness seeped into him, filling him when the heat of his blood splattered from his body. Laughing. Sneering. Screaming. His own voice, ripped and worn from torment. Swollen with tears that he had not the strength to cry. Forever screaming.

He was there again, trapped in the belly of Orthanc. He was theirs again. The Uruk-hai were laughing as they flogged him. They sneered as they touched him. How they enjoyed defiling an Elf! How vile these creatures! The rage grew within him with every blow, with every roar of pleasure at his torture. He imagined himself brutally killing each of his tormentors. The thought brought him sick satisfaction.

A nightmare within a nightmare. Sleep came, but he did not want it. He never wanted it again. The White! The damned twisted purity! Black eyes narrowed with sadistic malice. Long, ancient fingers threading through his dreams, prodding at his mind. Would there ever be peace? Would he ever escape?

_"Never, dear Legolas. You are mine."_

_I will not give you the pleasure of seeing me broken!_

_"Your future, dear Legolas. Chained to the night."_

He was sinking into the shadow. There was no air to breathe, and he was suffocating. He struggled, fighting with every ounce of his ravaged being, but he could not find his way to the light. Despair stabbed at his hope. Perhaps there was no light. Perhaps there never had been. The thought terrified him, sending chills through his body like bolts of lightning.  _Somebody… please help me…_

_"Drown, dear Legolas. Wilt. No one will help you."_

_Stop it, please! Hurt me no longer!_

_"Neither Elf nor prince, dear Legolas. A coward in the shadows, yearning for death. They have a beautiful prisoner in you, dear Legolas. Come, let them take you!"_

He did not have the courage to counter the wretched voice. He did not have the strength to fight the truth any longer.

The world was red with blood. His blood. Boromir's blood. Aragorn's blood. And they were all laughing. Such a horrible sound! It pierced his mind and pounded in his heart, sending agony coursing over his body. He clasped his hands over his ears, as if that simple action might protect him. Tears fled his eyes in a flood of misery. The shadow pummeled him with bloody cruelty. They laughed and guffawed and giggled. A sob choked from his throat.

_"Pathetic, little one. You are hardly worthy of being Father's son!"_

He cringed. So many voices. So many taunts and jeers. Laughing. Sneering.  _Stop it!_ he cried, but his voice was lost in the cacophony. He was bleeding. He was hurting. Was there no salvation? Was there no hope? So many voices! It became so loud, so demeaning, that it consumed him. He screamed, wishing to hear himself in the din, struggling to hold to some piece of himself. But the blood was so thick, and the voices were so loud. He was swept away.

_"Weep, then! Spill your weakness!"_

_"I shall enjoy watching you suffer."_

_"I pity you, son of Thranduil, for you are but a child."_

_"The black shadow of corruption will cling to you always!"_

_"Stupid, stupid Elf."_

_"A child of the leaves, shunned and despised!"_

_"Scream for me, Elfling!"_

_"I smell his fear."_

_"Are you angry, dear Legolas?"_

He was furious. His heart pulsed in an agonized rush of hatred. He loathed and despised them for what they had done to him, for reducing him to a prisoner of the dark. More than that, he detested himself. Purity twisted! The stain of evil upon him always! How could he have been so weak?

Yet he could do nothing but cry. He never did anything but cry.  _"Weep, then. Spill your weakness! You truly are pathetic, Legolas."_

_"You are nothing but a child."_

_"Neither Elf nor prince."_

_"A coward in the darkness."_

_"A wretch, yearning for death."_

And he was. The voices stopped. The blood disappeared. Now there was a void, a dark place where the light had never entered. Where the light would never find him. This was his own prison, and he collapsed into it. Defeat seemed suddenly the warmest embrace. A comforting emptiness. His battered body collapsed. His traumatized mind fell. His devastated soul withered. And he calmly hated himself.  _Yearning for death._ The tears were warm upon his lips and he smiled. A small insane grin.

_"Now you cry for the one that betrayed you."_

_Yes. I cry for myself._

_"I should have ended your misery when there was the chance."_

_You should have,_  he thought.  _But there is still time. Aye, there is much time yet._

* * *

Legolas gasped and sat up quickly. The void was all around him, swallowing him hungrily, and he thought for a moment he had not torn from that disgusting dream at all. His weak eyes were slow to adjust to the deep black, and he laid in its embrace quivering, praying that these shadows would take form, that the substance of reality would ward away the irrational fear. Finally he began to see. Light flashed, illuminating ghoulish fingers scraping the black overhead. Tree limbs. Cold ground beneath him. He felt grass in his hands and rocks poking into his thighs. Rain splattered on his nose, and he looked up. The tree wept fat droplets, shedding water after a massive deluge.

Memory slowly returned to Legolas, though it was slow to become cohesive in his jumbled mind. A great storm had pounded their trail, and Aratadarion had insisted they stop. They sought shelter from the tempest in this copse of trees west of the Anduin. Legolas had not wanted to waste a moment in rest, but found his body would not allow his continuing. He had simply been too weary to make any sort argument. The moment they had stopped, with the storm violently pounding the sky with blast after blast of lightning, he had promptly fallen asleep. How he despised this new weakness!

Thunder grumbled grouchily in the distance. His racing heart slowed its terrified beat. He buried his face in his hands. His cheeks burned against his sweaty fingers. The ridicule was all too fresh in his tortured mind, and he shuddered, releasing a short sob of despair. It had seemed so horribly real that he could not help but remember the pain and humiliation. As he wavered, his thoughts became pessimistic and troubled. What was the meaning of such a nightmare? Again he closed his eyes and sank into the mire. He saw his face, staring back at him from that murky puddle. His eyes, devoid of light. This wretched curse! Perhaps Astaldogald had been right. The words of his older brother had not meant much to him before. He had simply dismissed the demeaning insults as statements spoken in fury. Yet they were not without truth. He had brought disgrace to his father's House. He had been made a wretch, a creature without light or pride. Neither Elf nor prince.

He shuddered again.  _"I should have ended your misery when there was the chance."_  He was beginning to believe it, and that frightened him more than any trial or torture he had endured. Would it not be better to simply fade away? To disappear and remove the ugly stain he had become upon his father's legacy? To release himself from the torment of his shame? The thought was alluring. He felt he might be sick. Imagine that! An Elf yearning to die! But a part of him could not let the thought go.  _I am no Elf. I am nothing._

A hand came to grasp his shoulder, and he cried out in shock, stiffening and jerking away. Lightning battered the sky, and he glanced behind him.

Aratadarion slowly retracted his grasp. The Elf prince's eyes were wide in confusion and fear. "I… I apologize. I did not mean to startle you." Legolas felt his body shake in relief and horror at once. His brother's expression betrayed his true fright. Neither of them was accustomed to Legolas' frail mortal body and senses.

The thought soured his mood more, and Legolas tucked his knees to his chest and looked away. He felt water and sweat cling to his scalp, sticky in his hair. Wind bucked against the tree, shaking water from the leaves. The tiny, cold drops that struck him were the only connection he had with the great spirit. Desperately he wished for more, for the tree's spirit to again touch his own. But he felt nothing but a cold, bleak emptiness, and he ground his teeth together. His rage was forever growing.

"Your dreams disturb you, brother," declared Aratadarion quietly.

For a moment there was but the thunder and the wind and the soft splatter of the rain. He could not find it within himself to answer. He simply did not know how.

The hand came again to grasp his shoulder. The fingers felt strong and warm, and Legolas bit his lip to suppress another shudder, for the intuitive and intangible connection he had always held with his brothers was starkly missing. Its absence hurt anew each time he noticed it. "Tell me, if you wish." The tone was soft and offering. "I will think no less of you."

Legolas' resolve wavered. The dam he had constructed around his despair was cracking. He suddenly longed to speak, to divulge the horror of his pain. He closed his eyes. "Forgive me," he whispered. The numbness was coming back to him. He did not want to simply succumb to it, but its safety and security was too enticing. "It is wrong of me to think of myself in these times."

Aratadarion sighed gently. "Speak, Legolas. Let us bear your pain together." When the younger brother still remained silent, Aratadarion tightened his grasp. "Do not suffer in silence," he implored.

Legolas closed his eyes. His fears spilled from his lips. "This curse torments me… I feel it inside. The black roots go deep into my heart." He bowed his head sadly. "I fear it will never release me." The last of his words were a terrified whisper. "I fear Astaldogald is right."  _A mortal life of misery. Inevitable death. I want no part of it!_

Aratadarion did not respond. Anger amplified Legolas' despair. His brother's hesitation only signified the truth in his worries.

There was more, so much more, to his agony, but Legolas lost the will to speak of it. Instead he wrapped himself in frustrated rage. He thought he heard the vile voices in the wind and the patter of the rain, taunting him, chasing him. How he wished to be done with it all!

He stood suddenly. Pain had become so common that he had all but sensitized to it, and he barely felt the discomfort in his feet as he rose. "Let us continue." His tone was cold and lifeless. He felt Aratadarion stand beside him, but he did not turn to him. He narrowed his eyes. "The storm has abated."

"You need rest, Legolas," his brother softly reminded him.

"Nay," retorted Legolas sharply, "I need peace, and I shall not find that in sleep!" He clenched his fists and looked to sky helplessly. Tears burned in his eyes, but he stubbornly held them back. "Saruman tortures me still with nightmares, and I cannot fight myself." A great shudder claimed him as the memories threatened once more. He pivoted then and regarded Aratadarion. The lithe Elf's face was bright in the flashes of pale lightning. His eyes glistened. "Please, let us press on. I worry for Aragorn. I must end this."

Aratadarion watched him, and Legolas prayed his face was placid. For a moment they were still, uncomfortable in the silence, one seeking to hide and the other to help. Then Aratadarion nodded silently.

Moments later they were walking. A light drizzle blew over the land, and Legolas pulled his cloak tighter around his worn body. He felt his will fade and his strength wane. The nightmare was still too fresh, prodding at the edge of his attention. But he concentrated on his steps, on the cool wind and rain.

Tomorrow they would reach Minas Tirith. He would fulfill the last of his promises.

_Yearning for death._

He shuddered. He swore to himself that he would not again rest until he did what he had sworn. Only then would he sleep. Deep and dreamless.

* * *

The night was thick and heavy upon Mordor, but Frodo lay awake, troubled by strange dreams and demented thoughts. The land was far from silent. Mount Doom grumbled and groaned in the distance, often rattling the rock crevice in which they had that night made their camp. Shadowfax was restless as well, pawing the ground and snorting every so often. Sam was snoring quite loudly for one so small. A distant howl pierced the quiet once in a while. Yet these things he did not hear.

The call of the One Ring, so vociferous and alluring in its song, filled his heart. He tensely listened, struggling to concentrate on some other sound. He watched the sky with passionate attention, fighting to ignore that which he heard. Still this he could not do. It seemed as though that sick call had permeated every fiber of his being, spilling its putrid affection into his mind and poisoning his soul. He clenched and unclenched his fists and ground his teeth. He could not calm himself enough to lapse into dream. He could not ignore the Ring's beckoning sufficiently to find peace. Like a sad addict, he sank into fits of longing, chastised himself into dismissing such thoughts, and then again relenting to their comfort. This sordid cycle had claimed him for hours, and he felt his pure heart and noble intentions waning. He hated himself for this weakness, but he was drawn to the Ring's power. Its corruption had seeped into his soul. All day he had watched Sam with a predator's eyes, envious of his friend's possession. Once or twice thoughts of asking the Hobbit to return the silly trinket seemed the only course of action, but he had always managed to dismiss them. In the still night, when Sam innocently slept, it was so much harder to fight his desires.

Such strange dreams! He awoke from them ignorant of their substance but well aware of their meaning. The stench of the Ring's seduction clung to them, but Frodo could not find it within himself to brush them aside. It terrified him that he could so easily believe in their stupendous yet attractive lies. The Ring seemed to have a power all its own. Its presence was tangible and potent, and when he closed his eyes he imagined it reaching out silky fingers to grasp him. The same wretched questions ran through his mind. He was tired of facing them and frightened that he had grown less and less sure of their answers as the night wore.  _Why shouldn't I take it? Why? What harm would come of it? I only wish to hold it. I wouldn't wear it… I would not!_

The small creature pressed a hand to his forehead. His palm was cold and clammy with sweat. He was saturated with this driving desire, and he shook, as though keeping control of it was a physically trying endeavor.  _How did you do this, dear Bilbo?_ he wondered drearily, wishing his beloved uncle was there to advise him.  _How did you fight this horrible nightmare for so long? I cannot bear it!_

He was so very tired. The road had been long, and battling this sudden infatuation with the One Ring had depleted his stamina. He had had no idea finding the Ring again would have such an effect on him. He idly considered that separation from it had borne into him the need to have it, that existence without it had implicitly taught his heart to value its voice. He had once been disgusted by its power. He had once been fearful of those that desired it. How he wished he could feel as such again!

Frodo whimpered softly into the night. The thick clouds overhead hid the moon; its mournful, sympathetic face was nowhere to be found. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to hold true to his resolve. He could not fight Mordor and himself at once! He would need all his strength to finish this forsaken quest. He needed to sleep, and it must be a respite free of disturbing dreams. He must live unfettered by this insane desire! It pulsed in his heart, breathed with his lungs, crowded his mind and laced every thought with surreptitious longing. The temptation was simply too great. If only he could escape it just long enough to sleep. If only he could elude it or somehow placate it…  _Just for a bit. Surely no harm will come it! Surely!_

The weary Hobbit shuddered and collapsed under the strain of his desire. He opened his eyes. His body moved of its own accord. He rolled to his side and peered into the shadows. Sam was sleeping soundly beside him, his head pillowed on his pack and his cloak drawn up over his body. Frodo regarded his friend hesitantly a moment, waiting to see if Sam had roused at all from his movements. The small creature only snored louder. A twisted grin broke Frodo's face.

Gently and slowly, Frodo pulled the garment from Sam's form. The Ring was in Sam's left breast pocket, covered by his outer coat. Frodo peeled that back as well. The longing was so loud as it pounded in his head. The Ring was screaming ancient words, begging him to free it. His small hand picked its way into his friend's clothing. Greed glinted in Frodo's wide eyes and the world faded. There was only the Ring. The power enveloped him like the warmth of the sun. His fingertips brushed the band.

"Mister Frodo?"

The dream shattered and the world crashed into him with a rush of panic and fear. The Ring lost its hold in the moment, and he yanked free his hand. He skittered backward, falling hard to his bottom. His body shook violently.

He could not look Sam in the eyes. He imagined his friend's face, his innocence tarnished by betrayal and confusion. The concern he felt radiating from the loyal companion turned his stomach. "What are you doing?"

He could not find the words to begin to explain. Tears filled his eyes, burning violently, and he thought his heart might simply break. Given his shame and horror, he almost hoped it would. The implication of what he had nearly done was terrifying.

He could only breathe and wait for Sam to pass his judgment. An endless moment prolonged his torment as Sam watched him. He kept his eyes lowered. His racing heart hurt in his chest. Then Sam swallowed loudly and uncomfortably. "Shall we move on, Mister Frodo? It's nearly dawn, that it is."

Frodo could not believe what he had heard. Would Sam brush this aside? How could his friend be so blind? Some part of him cried for help, for relief, for judgment, but a larger piece of him quaked in consuming relief. He shuddered involuntarily and then nodded. Sam looked upon him a moment more before turning to ready his things. His pale face was twisted.

Trust betrayed. Lies festering. Masks and façades where there was once truth. These were markings of a dark future!

Yet Frodo only helped his friend stand upon his broken leg with shaking hands and a bleeding soul. The desire surged again unbidden. He wanted to scream his helpless frustration. He no longer knew himself. A stranger in his body was directing his hands and feet. He was trapped.

Shadowfax was eager to get under way. The night was so very black, but the horse sensed the fears and tensions and led them forward.

It would not be dawn for hours.


	23. King's Fortitude

The dawn came early to Gondor, and with the sun's rise the Dwarf, the Elf, and the two Halflings parted company with the heir of Isildur. Aragorn had spent the night in a restless trance of worry and dismay, and he thought the light stabbing through the curtains of his room's window far too bright and unexpected. Minas Tirith sluggishly rose to meet the day, sodden with the night's deluge and weary with the news of their lord's murder. Aragorn had had little energy when he escorted his friends to the city's massive stables. The nightmare of last night was broken by the glare of the sun, but its strangeness had not changed, and the scene before him had seemed odd and unbelievable.

Still, he had shared with his comrades a stiff farewell. Gandalf at his side, he had borne the last moments of their companionship behind a cool mask that he hoped would hide his true melancholy. There was little time for fond reminiscing or a lengthy departure. To Haldir he had offered once again his thanks, his gratitude sincere despite his exhaustion, and the Lórien archer had assured him that they would not fail in protecting the Golden Wood. Stoic and calm, the Elf had quickly mounted Arod, who seemed at once relieved and annoyed to be again in the presence of his masters. Merry and Pippin he had warmly embraced. Both had repeatedly expressed their joy in joining him on this horrid adventure. Their words were bright and cheery, but their eyes expressed what was left unsaid: a perhaps vain request that Frodo and Sam be returned to them, that all would again be whole, that this last portion of their Fellowship not be broken. But Aragorn had only been able to hug them tightly and assure them that all would somehow be right in the end. It seemed enough for them. He wondered if it was enough for himself.

With the two Hobbits secured upon a pony, the ranger had then turned his attention to the stout Dwarf. Gimli's eyes were hard with his new mission, but his ruddy face and rough voice strong with trust and respect. Scant words were shared, but Gimli's forlorn gaze spoke volumes of the loss they had together weathered. Few things served to bind hearts so tightly as sorrow. Gimli had clasped him on the arm. " _When we win this war, Aragorn, I would much like to meet again in Rivendell. I think I can better appreciate the beauty of the Lord Elrond's provinces now!"_  His eyes grew dark and serious.  _"Yes, let us meet there once more so that we might celebrate our victories and mourn all we have lost."_

Aragorn had promised. After, he had helped Gimli mount Arod. A few last smiles. Then they had galloped away, mud and straw splattered by the pounding horse feet. Guards escorted the small party along the way to the gate. The ranger stood at the mouth of the stables, watching until they had disappeared from his line of sight. He thought of twilight in Rohan, observing the departing Frodo as he all but disappeared into the shadows. He thought of morning in Rivendell, blankly gazing at the hem of Arwen's white dress as it caressed the ground when she had left him. A slow separation. He thought of Legolas. Harsh and without warning, his dear brother had been ripped away. The pain of losing his friends, both suddenly and slowly, both viciously and sweetly, chewed at his heart.

Gandalf had clasped him on the shoulder.  _"Do not concern yourself, Aragorn. Each has his own part. They will do theirs, as you must do yours. Solitude is but a transient thing, after all. The threads of fate weave us all together."_

He was glad for Gandalf's comfort and wise words, but he found he was still nursing a sad mood hours later. He tried to shake it as he now approached the great meeting hall of the White Tower. Inside the double oak doors were all the advisors of Gondor, wise in experience and tenacious in purpose. They were Denethor's most trusted allies. He must now earn their respect and use their strength to defend this kingdom. He could not allow personal matters to cloud his judgment.

The young king steeled himself, closing his eyes briefly and drawing a deep breath. Then he pushed open the doors. They creaked open, loudly and slowly, as if deliberately seeking to prolong the torturous hesitation.

The room became visible, and the conversation stopped. Morning light streamed through the great windows, casting a bright glow onto the long, polished table. Parchment and books were strewn across its flawless surface. Men of all ages and statures stood stiffly. Aragorn felt his innards clench as all eyes analyzed him. He could not blame them; they of course had the right to study their new liege. Yet their scrutinizing gazes unnerved him. Would they trust him? Could they detect his weaknesses? Aragorn prided himself on his nerve and resolution, but he could not defeat this confounded nervousness assailing him. The unbreakable silence endured.

Gandalf met his eyes. The ancient dark orbs were filled with compassion and encouragement, but he did not rise from his seat at the table or speak. This trust was not his to extend.

"My Lord." Faramir appeared suddenly. The young man stepped from the head of the table and through the group of advisors. He seemed somewhat weary, his eyes outlined in darkness and his form a bit hunched from a night spent in restless mourning. However, his face was bright and his voice welcoming. "It is a fine morning to plan a battle, is it not?"

Whether the saying was made in jest or not, Aragorn found its audacity pleasant, like a warm, affable joke held between two old friends. He gave a small grin. "If the morning must be spent as such."

Faramir grasped his arm gently, as if sensing his anxiety. Aragorn typically would have thought such an action inappropriate, but said nothing, his relief overpowering his pride. Without Faramir's acceptance, he was sure the others would never treat him as their leader. Certainly they would follow the actions of their previous lord's son!

The young lord escorted Aragorn to the table. "The most recent reports indicate that a large army of Orcs has breached Mordor to Emyn Muil. Scouts have been tracking their approach. We know not right now if they have crossed the Anduin." Faramir shook his head, gazing down at an old map spread across the table. "Surely it is but a matter of time," he murmured sadly.

"All the more reason to act quickly," declared a man to the ranger's right. He was relatively nondescript, burly and aged with a stony face far too lined with seriousness to jest or tolerate frivolity. Aragorn recognized him after a moment of thought. This was Brodderband, one of Denethor's highest advisors. The man was a seasoned soldier and strong military strategist. He was an advantage that Aragorn could not afford to lose. "My Lord," Brodderband began, "we cannot dawdle. Lord Denethor was poisoned into indecision by confusion, treachery, and suspicion. Now our enemy is as clear as ever." The man jabbed a thick finger to the map, pointing towards the dark, eastern fortress of Barad-Dûr. "We must build a defense."

Aragorn nodded, agreeing completely with the man. "And the size of our forces?" he questioned, a hand at his chin.

Brodderband looked to another. This soldier was a bit younger, his square face framed by thick whiskers of blond. Aragorn did not know his name, but found his gaze friendly enough given the severity of the situation. "Formidable, sir. We have roughly five thousand infantry and eight hundred archers."

The man was true to his words. Such a force was impressive, indeed. Yet Aragorn felt worried. He doubted that would be enough. Gandalf spoke before he could express his doubts, though. "I fear it may be insufficient," declared the ancient wizard. He shook his head seriously. "Even without the forces of Isengard to support him, Sauron will undoubtedly throw everything he has at us, bent at breaking the stronghold of Middle Earth's defense. The force approaching I believe to number in the tens of thousands."

Aragorn held back a weary sigh. "I can confirm that, sir," spoke another man. He was garbed in chain mail and a Gondor surcoat. "Scouts have reported a massive army of Orcs stretching from north of Gondor to the Anduin."

"Surely the Nine will aid their Master in his black doing as well," Gandalf mused. The calm in his voice Aragorn found amazing considering the dangerous matter. "They alone are a force not to be trifled with."

"And the size of Mirkwood's legions?" Aragorn asked.

"Assuming they come to aid," reminded Brodderband, his tone not without its suspicion.

"Assuming."

The old advisor again deferred to the soldier. "We cannot be sure, sir. In the thousands. There are but a few scouts tracking their movements, as I have ordered most to keep watch upon Mordor."

Brodderband shook his head ruefully. "They arrive in a matter of hours. Certainty will have to wait. In the mean time, Lord, we must fortify the city."

Aragorn stood stiffly, his arms folded across his breast. He stared at the map blankly, the image burning into his mind, trying hard to sort through his thoughts. So much was unknown, and he was coming into command when time could not be wasted. The room was quiet as he contemplated, the men awaiting the decisions of their king, perhaps seeking to judge the orders, perhaps wondering if it was not already to late for the lost king of Gondor to save their nation. The ranger narrowed his eyes. "How long until the Orcs reach us?" he asked.

He did not look up as the soldier answered. "Difficult to say, Lord. This eve at the earliest. Midday tomorrow the latest perhaps, I would reckon."

"And they approach from the north?"

"All reports indicate."

Aragorn shook his head. "They will form a great band, bent at the edges, and swing down." He swept his fingers at the map. "Like the curve of a bow. They expect us to fortify the city, to build our defense around it." He traced the figure on the map. "Then the line will shrink and become a circle, surrounding us and trapping us in Minas Tirith. The battle will become a siege, and we will fall." He looked up. "They clearly have the numbers to do such."

The others considered the prospect grimly. Then Faramir nodded. "You are right, my Lord," he declared. He met Aragorn's gaze. "What do you suggest?"

"We must form our own band north of Minas Tirith," Aragorn quickly declared, excited with the idea in spite of himself. He gestured on the map. "Here, upon these fields. These are the lands we must defend." He looked around the group. "We cannot allow the army to reach Minas Tirith. The city is far too large to evacuate, and should we permit their approach, we will be left trapped in our own territory."

"You believe our best option is to face Mordor out on open ground?" asked one of the older advisors incredulously. "There are no fortifications on that field! No protection! The land has no advantage!" The man scowled sourly, clearly unimpressed with his new king's reasoning.

But Aragorn was not about to be defeated. "Indeed it does not. No advantage for us, and no advantage for them."

"It will be difficult to hold, my Lord," Brodderband announced softly. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and gazed at the map. "Difficult, but not impossible. There are some highlands near the basin of the Anduin. If we reinforce such spots, we may have a chance." The man spoke with growing enthusiasm, as if he was beginning to understand. "Yes. We might have a chance indeed!"

The objector gave an exaggerated sigh. "This is ludicrous!" he snapped.

"Hold your tongue," snapped Brodderband tightly. He turned to Aragorn. "I shall make all necessary preparations."

Aragorn nodded firmly. "Keep a small force behind to protect Minas Tirith should we fail," he added, praying vehemently that it would not come to that. Brodderband nodded and gave a stiff salute before exiting the great hall, his retinue in tow. He barked a few orders to his men, his voice becoming distant as he marched down the corridor. Aragorn released a small sigh of relief that his plan had been trusted.

He turned to the son of Denethor. "What say you, Faramir? Has this plan merit?"

Faramir's eyes were distant a moment, his young face taut with thought and clear anxiety. Then he narrowed his gaze, as if settling on the action. "It is as good as any, my King. What do you ask of me?"

"Ride to the site," Aragorn said, clasping the younger man on his shoulder. "Scout the land and see for yourself if we can defend it."

Faramir nodded, although a bit hesitantly. Aragorn wondered how often his own father might have levied such an important task upon him. "And you, my Lord?"

He felt his weariness then. The prospect of what he must do now pushed away energy borne from his plan. "I will wait for the Elves to arrive. Then I will join you with good news of their aid, I hope."

"May I offer a suggestion, my Liege?" Aragorn turned to face the soldier from before. His chain mail glinted brightly in the sun. His face seemed too youthful for his occupation. Aragorn felt suddenly guilty for asking such a dangerous thing as fighting from this boy. Yet he only nodded, praying his face did not show his exhaustion or guilt. "Summon the forces of Rohan. If Isengard has truly been defeated, perhaps they will be willing to come now to our aid."

It seemed too late an hour to consider it. Never would Rohan reach them in time. Still, he could not brush the idea aside. It might later prove to be a mistake. There came a deep voice behind him. "Allow me to see to that, son of Arathorn," offered Gandalf, rising from his seat in one slow, fluid motion. The white of his robe gleamed. "I believe I can carry a message quite a bit faster than a man upon a horse."

Aragorn did not question how, trusting Gandalf absolutely. "Very well then."

"Shall we call for an evacuation, sir?" Faramir asked softly.

"If you think you can do so without inciting panic, then by all means. I hope it shall not come to our defeat, but the precaution is necessary." Faramir nodded. "Send word to the gate guards. Escort Mirkwood's commander here immediately."

"Of course, Lord," Faramir said quickly. Then he bowed quickly and was off. Many of the others followed him, talking lowly, rushing about duties. Aragorn thought he heard the objector from before talking harshly about him and his strategy. He chose not to discipline the man for his insubordination. This matter of leadership was still an alien thing to him, and he did not forget that it must as well be an awkward matter for them. There was as well too much to concern him, and he could not waste time over one act of dissension.

Only Gandalf remained. The wizard stood at his rear, his staff tall upon the marbled floor. A strange sense of fear coiled in Aragorn's stomach as he suddenly considered a notion that had not previously come to him. "Gandalf," he said softly, drawing the ancient Istar's attention. He turned to face his friend. Sunlight cast him aglow with shining power. "What do you know of Saruman's intentions? Is it possible he as well will appear and oppose us?"

The wizard's dark eyes grew distant as he considered. "It is more than possible," he answered after a moment. Aragorn held his breath as Gandalf centered his gaze upon him. "He is cunning and vile. I do not know if he still pursues the Ring, but…" The wizard paused, as if listening to voices only he could hear. The man watched him intently. "He is near, I believe. His madness has become consuming." Aragorn's dread grew burdensome. How could they as well contend with a corrupted wizard as powerful as Saruman? Gandalf smiled then, that same comforting grin that assured all was well, that forces greater than the power of any one man governed life. "Worry not, Aragorn. Saruman is my mistake and shall therefore be my concern. I will destroy him, if need be."

This pledge heartened him. Gandalf did not exaggerate or lie. He did not make silly the truth for the sake of luxury. He cleared his mind, taking a deep breath. He would only concern himself with what concerned him.

"Now, come and take some breakfast," Gandalf said. "The day will be hot and long indeed."

* * *

Three hours passed. Aragorn spent that time in the middle of the strangest flurry of activity. Where before he had been much the loner, whose opinion was valued by a scant few, he was suddenly the center of all attention. Every order passed through him. Actions required his approval. Incidents needed his discretion. He found it at once tiring and exciting. It also troubled him somewhat. The attention was intimidating, and he did not know if he had it within him to be what these people needed.  _Hope._

It was nearly noon, and Aragorn felt stiff and hot. The sun was high, spilling light and warmth into the castle. Even the shadows of the great tower were heated, the cool dankness warded away by the day. For the first time that day, he was completely alone, and the silence of the hall seemed louder than all of the requests, questions, and comments made that morning. His head was buzzing with a dull ache that he tried pointedly to ignore. The great meeting hall was still aside from the steady clopping of his boots against the marble as he paced. The banners of Gondor hung in the windows, vibrant in the brightness of the sun. They seemed to watch him in pity as he walked. Was he perhaps the first king they had ever seen so rattled? The thought did not please him.

As the minutes ticked away, he found the source of his anxiety shifted. He counted himself a man of patience, but he found this time he could hardly bear this torturous wait. Time dragged by so slowly, and it would not be long before the Elves of Mirkwood arrived in Gondor.  _And then what?_ he wondered. His stomach knotted in an intense nervousness, and he pivoted, digging his heel into the floor.  _What can I say to them? How can I explain what has happened?_ He had pondered the matter in this endless and queer silence for what seemed like forever, and to no avail, for he could conjure no excuse or fathom no explanation. His fear the night before that these forces had come to condemn him for Legolas' fall grew into a pressing terror. He tried to rationalize this unbearable shame. Legolas had not been his to protect. His dear friend was more than a capable warrior, and a powerful Elf at that. He had not been Aragorn's charge! But this line of reasoning only plunged him deeper into a murky well of guilt and sorrow. He felt horrible for trying to rid himself of the blame, like he was besmirching their friendship. For that vow made so many years ago his heart bled! He had been the one to break it, to leave Legolas in his hour of need. He could never cleanse his hands of this blood.

Aragorn closed his eyes as his head pounded. How sick, this fate! How wretched and wrong! He had assumed his birthright. He had found strength and purpose. And Legolas?  _Does he live yet? I fear I will never know!_ Death in the coming battle would not be remedy enough!

Perhaps it was irrational to toil over this matter. The Elves surely sought to aid him. The Last Alliance would be forged again, as strong this day as it was thousands of years ago. They did not come to charge him with their prince's murder. Aragorn rubbed his brow wearily.  _Though I deserve their wrath. I deserve their penance for leaving Legolas to the shadow!_ It was a sorry state, he realized. How could he stand the guilt levied against him by Mirkwood when he could not even tolerate his own?

Aragorn paced to the trouble and sank into a chair. A goblet of wine before him remained as untouched as the plate of food the servants had sometime before offered. His pipe as well sat idly upon the table. The ranger bowed his head, rubbing his aching eyes and trying to compose himself. The pain within at Legolas' capture became piercing, and he felt his throat constrict. He had not as yet properly grieved for his dearest friend, and as much as he tried to deny or justify it, he knew perfectly well the reason. He  _wanted_  to believe Legolas was still alive. He wanted to have that faith. It was some measure of fortitude. He knew it was unlikely and even unwanted, for if Legolas lived still, it agonized Aragorn to imagine how the Elf must suffer. The idea of never knowing for certain terrified him. He would not abandon hope. He would not mourn.

Aragorn lifted his head. Sweat collected at his temples and the back of his neck. He thought he felt a cool breeze and heard a happy laugh, but the air was still and hot. The quiet screamed.

The door thundered and opened, startling him. He rose shakily to his feet and cursed himself for his sloppy appearance and movements. He was a king. He must act it.

A few pages stepped through first. One stopped at the mouth of the hall and announced, "Prince Vardaithil of Mirkwood, first son of Thranduil, requests an audience, oh Lord."

The formality of it only aggravated him. Yet he swallowed his seething anger and calmed his riled nerves. "Send him in."

The other page quickly did as he was told. Aragorn clasped his hands at the small of his back and stood erect. He held his breath and weathered these last painful moments.

Finally the page returned. Behind him walked a procession of a few Elves, garbed in chain mail and the colors of the House of Oropher. They seemed sad and wooden, eyes ahead and averted. The exuded a cold air of wariness and distrust. Aragorn stiffened. Behind them appeared an Elf of regal stature wearing golden plate and bearing the mark of the royal family. Aragorn recognized him vaguely. Once or twice had Legolas introduced him to his eldest brother, the crown prince. Vardaithil was an imposing Elf, with strong eyes and jaw. Few Elves served to intimidate Aragorn where they did most men. Thranduil and his eldest son were two. The royal family of Mirkwood, as Legolas had explained and he himself had witnessed, was losing its power. It was hard to believe when one saw the great aura of strength that Vardaithil exuded.

The tall Elf regarded him with chilly eyes, and Aragorn knew immediately that Vardaithil held him in no esteem. If the prince would not publicly admit his suspicion of Aragorn's involvement in Legolas' fall, his gaze would still alert all to it. "Elessar," spoke the Elf quietly.

Aragorn brushed aside his emotions. He must not let his anger or fear control his words. "Lord Vardaithil," he said simply, holding the other's gaze.

"I will dispense with the formalities," Vardaithil began. His voice was as hard as his glare. "You know as well as I that my family holds no love for you. At Lady Galadriel's behest I have come to aid you in this fight, and for her sake will I defer my men to your command. I shall warn but once, though. Do not abuse what I have offered, for you already scorned my father's House."

Aragorn felt his temper slip. He ground his teeth. He did not like at all this threat. It was laced with all the unspoken accusations. Still, he did not wish to start a quarrel with Vardaithil. Mirkwood's support was simply too vital to their success. "I will not," he declared slowly, coolly. "I ask only that you stand beside us when the time comes, and that you point your swords and arrows at our common foe."

Vardaithil nodded. "Simple enough. I trust you and your advisors have a plan for battle."

"We do."

"I would like a briefing of it as soon as possible."

"Of course." The conversation was curt and cold. In a way it was worse than what Aragorn expected. Dismissal of the subject of Legolas seemed so much crueler, as if he was unworthy of its discussion. But he continued on, unwilling to show weakness before Vardaithil. He did not want to admit his guilt. "Please, all Gondor can offer is at your disposal. I have instructed my captains to fulfill your requests. Rooms have been set as-"

Vardaithil turned suddenly, interrupting him. "That is all," he snapped sourly. Aragorn was surprised, and then he smoldered in fury. He had never before truly had occasion to speak with Vardaithil. Could the Elf prince truly be so close-minded? When the other reached the door, he paused momentarily and spoke without turning again to face the ranger. "Lady Evenstar traveled with me from Lothlórien. She awaits you outside."

The hot grip of Aragorn's anger shattered in cold surprise. For a moment, the words meant nothing, failing to produce any sort of logical sense in his head. Then he doubted their truth. But before he could question the Elf prince, the doors again opened. Vardaithil smoothly exited, and Arwen entered.

Aragorn stood, paralyzed by his shock. He had never fathomed that this might happen. Perhaps the day had become dream.

The sun streamed around her, bringing to life her pale skin and dark tresses. Eyes blue and deep sought his, glistening with unshed tears. She wore a simple riding gown of deep lavender that swished as she stepped. She seemed more fantasy than reality, as if through those doors she arrived from another world that was distant and locked to him.

As she neared, he remained still, afraid that any sudden movement or word might disrupt the dream and chase it away. She offered him a small grin, her lips full and inviting. He snapped from his daze then, and his body suddenly screamed for her embrace, for her kiss. Yet he remained still and felt his limbs shake in restraint. He could not divulge in such pleasures before his subordinates. How improper for a king!

It seemed a silly thing to think, but it was all his jumbled mind could manage. "What are you doing here?" he gasped in a soft, surprised whisper.

Arwen smiled again, obviously pleased that he was so enamored at her entrance. "I came to aid you, my Lord. My place is at your side," declared the daughter of Elrond. Her voice was a melody. Though the air was still, he could smell her perfume. Deeply he inhaled. Oh, he had missed these sweet things!

A deep voice came from behind then, drawing his attention. "She insisted, Estel." Glorfindel gave him a grave nod. The Elf lord stood tall and powerful behind Arwen. This was as Aragorn most often encountered him, forever protecting the children of Elrond. He knew much of Glorfindel's fame as a warrior and Elf. Still, he had never intimidated Aragorn. He held a calm air of respect, both offering and expecting. "It much grieves me that these black times had come upon us. Yet I am greatly pleased to see you assume your birthright." The Elf lord offered a small smile, all but imperceptible on his long face.

Something inside the ranger pulsed with pride. Compliments from Glorfindel were not easily won. The storm of emotions within him grew stronger, and drawing a slow, deep breath was all he could to remain calm. "I thank you, Lord," said Aragorn, "and I appreciate your appearance."

Glorfindel nodded. "Certainly," the Elf lord declared. "It is my duty, both to protect Middle Earth and Elrond Peredhil's kin." He stepped closer and lowered his voice. "I know much has happened to threaten both your health and your heart, and I am greatly relieved to find that that has not stolen your resolve. The road appears uncertain and dark, and it perhaps bends in ways none can foresee. I will walk it with you, son of Arathorn. Tell me what I might do to aid you."

The words were like a warm embrace to his heart. He suddenly became infinitely glad that Glorfindel had mysteriously appeared in Gondor. "You are too kind," he managed.

"I shall leave you alone, then," Glorfindel announced with a gentle, knowing grin, "for private moments will no doubt become few and far in between." He bowed slightly before turning. He left the hall on steady footfalls. The group of Elves and men outside seemed wary of each other, but that tension all but dissipated when the mighty warrior passed through them. Aragorn marveled at Glorfindel's equanimity.

The ranger gave a curt nod to one of the guards at the portal, and the man shut the massive oak doors with a heavy clank.

Aragorn felt his heart rush as he returned his gaze to Arwen. She stepped closer and offered her hands to him. He took them, her skin soft and smooth. His large, calloused fingers cupped her slender palms. His touch seemed unworthy to him. "I thought you were a dream," he breathed. "For so long have I wished to see you again!"

Her hand came to caress the side of his face. "Estel…" she breathed. Restraint snapped, and she fell into his arms. He tightly held her, running his hands through the thickness of her dark tresses. Her essence filled him, warmer than the sun, sweeter than the summer breeze. Tears burned his eyes as she buried her head into his shoulder. "I was so worried." Her grip upon him tightened. "I was so worried!"

"Still your tears," he said softly as she pulled away. With the pad of his thumb, he wiped away the bright tears upon her checks. "I am safe." He laid her hand upon his heart, as if proving to her that he was alive and well and that her fears were unwarranted. "I am whole. I am strong in your gaze!"

Those words chased a bit of her despair from her face. "Then I am all the more happy that I have come," she said softly, taking his hand.

Yet a darker, sad air came between them. Aragorn's heart seemed to become stiff. The initial and overwhelming joy faded quickly to a stark fear. "Yet you must not stay."

In her dark eyes came a glint of unrelenting determination. "I will if I so choose it," she declared rather resolutely. He opened his mouth to further argue, but she was quick to interrupt him. "Estel, I cannot be again left behind, no matter the danger. This is my place. This is what I must do for you and for myself."

There was much he wanted to say, but he found he could not speak past the knot of his throat. She continued. As she spoke, he saw Elrond's stubbornness in her eyes and jaw. It was a feature neither of her brothers had inherited. "The fate of so much rests on this final battle. I would betray myself if I did not do all I could to help you."

The relief was so strong that it overpowered his fear. The battle could easily turn disastrous. To see Arwen hurt or trapped terrified him. He doubted that his heart could battle such an enemy. Yet souls had been rejoined, souls that were weaker part. Fortitude borne from love. He could not dream of ever sending her away from him again.

They kissed then, passionately. He tasted her tears, her strength. She fell into his arms, breathing deeply. "My heart grew dull and heavy without you," she whispered. "I could not bear to be away from you. Not now."

 _Not now._ In his time of need, she had come. She would be his strength now as she always had.

The two stood in the streams of light. A cool breeze wafted through the great hall, relieving the heat if only for a moment.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon, and the sun was high overhead. Aragorn squinted as the brightness assaulted his eyes. Blearily he looked ahead where the high banners of Gondor adorned the field. They were still, limp without the wind to pull them into a flying rainbow, and Aragorn thought they seemed most depressed. Gusts whipped at his hair, though, as Hasufel flew across the plain. The great horse's feet thundered against the ground, kicking up grass and sod.

Aragorn held tight to the saddle. Forever had seemed to pass since he had last ridden a horse, and Hasufel had been more than happy to see him. He had missed the horse as well, for he was an impressive and powerful animal, a kindred spirit if a horse could be such a thing. The animal seemed to sense his urgency and poured more speed into his gallop. The encampment was not far now, and Aragorn almost wished there was more distance yet. Here in the wind, on the open plain, there seemed to be little concern. The day was bright, if not a bit hot. The sky overhead was a deep blue that was unmarred by wisp of cloud. This was a day he would likely spend in game, tracking or hunting, in Mirkwood and Rivendell. How he longed to be there now, where cares were a foreign matter! Maybe he could turn Hasufel around and flee into freedom…

He shook his head slowly as he pulled his mount to a stop near the small assembly of men. Such carefree days were a thing of the past, and he could not indulge in silly fantasies. He drew in tight the reins of Hasufel, pulling the horse to a stop.

Faramir neared him, leaving a few men in mid-conversation. The young man was dressed in a simple surcoat that was dampened with sweat. Beads of moisture lined his brow. He pushed locks of sandy brown hair behind his ears. "My Lord," he began. One of the soldiers grabbed Hasufel's reins from his king, and Aragorn dismounted. Faramir regarded him with tired eyes. "The heat surely will not aid us."

Aragorn scrubbed his hand over his face. Faramir was right. To expect men to don heavy armor and fight in such conditions… Yet there was little to be done about it. "We can only hope the dark forces reach us in twilight or that tomorrow will see a cooler day."

They began to walk. "The latest reports from our scouts indicate that they will not breach our borders until nightfall," Faramir explained. There was relief in his tone.

"Good enough," Aragorn commented. He stopped, gazing across the field. Golden grass tinged by green stood still, like troops at their post, diligently watching the northern skies. Aragorn looked to the horizon. He winced, imagining thousands of black demons pouring from the blue haze. The thought chilled him, and he nearly shuddered. "These are the fields, then?"

Faramir shifted his weight. "Yes," he answered. "The high ground is not as advantageous as we would like, but there is an incline from the river basin. If their forces are as numerous as we believe, it should slow them." The young man gestured ahead. Down a small hill was a stone wall that rose about twelve feet from the ground. It was old, dilapidated and crumbling in some places, weathered by time and the elements. "This parapet marks the northern border of Gondor. If we station as many archers as possible here, we might be able to thin their forces as they advance. We should reinforce this wall and place the men as far as possible along it."

Aragorn nodded his agreement. Those old stones may yet defend their nation. "How soon can you be ready?" he asked the younger man.

"I can have our men at these posts by nightfall," Faramir responded. He turned to look at his king, his young face glowing. "What of the Elves?"

Both pain and joy welled up inside him. He had insisted that his lady go to her room and rest after her long journey. Arwen had claimed to be neither tired nor hungry, but he could not allow her to be in such a dangerous area. He by no means ever thought her weak, but vulnerable certainly. She had given up her immortality for him. He would not allow her to give up her life.

"They have agreed to aid us, though with resentment enough to worry me." Faramir looked puzzled but compassionate. The guilt swirled within Aragorn, but he brushed it aside. He clasped Faramir on the arm. The young man had quickly become a confidant and friend to the ranger, and for that he was grateful. He wondered somewhat sadly if he might have once shared such a relationship with Boromir. How much might be different had Boromir never taken the Ring? "It is a long and grievous tale, my friend, and there is not the time for it."

Faramir nodded and looked away, squinting as he scanned the horizon. "It is well that they will help us, though. The Last Alliance is stronger than any other." He sighed softly. "It is strong because of you."

He could not find the words to thank Faramir for all the young man had done for him. These last words brought warmth and hope to his heart. His strength as king truly came from those that respected and loved him!

There came the thunder of horses behind them, and they both turned. A soldier appeared, riding a gray gelding. He spoke, slightly winded. "Sir, I've met with two Elves who've come from the east. They ask to speak with you."

Aragorn's brow furrowed a bit. "Scouts from Lord Vardaithil?" he asked.

"They did not say, Lord, but one bears the insignia of Mirkwood."

"Send them forth, then," ordered Aragorn. "They might bear important information regarding the enemy." The soldier gave a stiff salute and kicked his horse back in the direction he came, running down the plain towards the east.

Aragorn glanced around. But two men lingered, one holding the reins of Hasufel, the other grasping those of Faramir's chestnut mare. The horses grazed on the grasses, and the men seemed tired in the heat. The ranger took a deep breath and looked to the stone wall. They would need a scaffold upon which archers might stand, and the ground behind the ramparts was too littered with stone and debris for men to comfortably hold it. There was much work to do.

He stepped forward, leaving Faramir standing and watching. He jogged down the slight hill and reached the wall. Breathing heavily, he placed both his palms against it. The stone was warm and old beneath his fingers, gritty with dirt. It seemed strong enough to support the weight of the archers and to protect the soldiers from the assault. The ranger glanced left and right. The wall seemed to stretch on infinitely. He was not much of a strategist, for his training and skills as a ranger benefited one little in a massive battle. Still, he could not deny the concerns blossoming inside him. They would need to form quite a long line of men and Elves, stretching the distance of the Orcs that would attack. It was a dangerous prospect, for their army would be spread thin. In any section fell through during the attack, the Orcs could easily punch a hole through their line and attack from behind. The ends of the army as well faced a perilous job of protecting the flank.

Yes, much would depend upon this wall. They would have to whittle down the Orcs as they charged, or Aragorn doubted they would stand much a chance. The plan reminded him of the one he concocted at Helm's Deep.  _And it did not work well then!_ He quickly brushed that thought aside. He had to have faith in his own plan.

To the left was a gap in the wall, and Aragorn stepped to it. It was about five feet across; they would need to somehow patch this. He passed through it, wanting to inspect the ground and the wall on the other side.

There was a flash of white metal in the sun.

Aragorn stopped short, his heart leaping and drawing a shocked breath, as the razor sharp tip of a gleaming sword came to rest at the soft flesh of his throat. For a moment there was no sound. A powerful tension emanated from his right. There came a soft breathing, ragged with rage.

"He is ruined," came a hiss. "He is ruined, and so am I! So I shall ruin you." Aragorn grimaced as the sword nicked into the flesh of his neck. The sting was minor, but the fear surmounted his calm and he jabbed his teeth into his tongue. He knew that voice. More terrifying, he knew he would not be able to avoid the killing blow. He found it within himself to glance to his left, struggling to remain perfectly still.

"The Last Alliance falls for the sin you have committed against my family!"

The sun bled hot fury.

_Astaldogald._


	24. Neither Elf Nor Prince

Fire. Heat. A blaze of anger, of sorrow, of the tightest violent rage. The bright sun overhead seemed dull and dim when compared to the hot menace swirling in Astaldogald's dark eyes.

The Elf prince's face was taut with a fury that was ominous and vicious, his form livid with a cold strength. The ranger vaguely noticed blood staining the prince's normally pristine clothing, and wondered sadly whose it might be. The sword tip at Aragorn's throat neither wavered nor fell, and the ranger felt a chilly terror wash over him. His heart raced in anger and fear. Slowly he backed away, swallowing his panic and struggling to retain his composure. Astaldogald followed his movements, prodding him back with the glowing blade. Never did its edge leave his throat. Aragorn grit his teeth. The sword was of the finest Elvish smithing, and its wielder was a warrior of amazing skill. If the prince struck, he would be slain before he could even think of mounting a defense.

Where is Faramir? he wondered in frustrated irritation. Where is my guard? They were atop the hill, waiting for the soldier to return with their guests. Would they notice the threat to his life below? Damn myself for wandering alone!

He backed slowly, keeping his steps light. His mind was racing, hindered by the heat and his raging emotions. He rarely saw any Elf act brashly under the influence of anger or sorrow. Astaldogald was frightfully calm and cold, his movements sleek and his eyes narrowed dangerously. The ranger doubted he could convince the Elf to spare him, but he realized with chagrin that that was his only option. He could not otherwise protect himself! "Still your rage," Aragorn said slowly, "and let us discuss this calmly!"

The cold visage cracked in ire. "Nay, Elessar, you have lost that right!"

They had reached the gentle hill, and the ground grew uneven under his feet. "Astaldogald, please. A dark force races towards Gondor. Sauron threatens with a second dark age as we speak! Would you see this world sundered for your vengeance?"

Astaldogald smoothly shook his head. "You took him from me," he hissed coldly. The Elf seemed to shake then, quivering in barely contained grief and wrath. "He was my brother by blood, but you took his heart! You, a man! And now I can never win him back…"

Confusion and pain coiled in Aragorn's stomach, and his knees abruptly felt weak and rubbery. For a moment the world spun around him, his limbs useless, his mind shattered and disjointed. He began to understand, and his anger soured. His voice simply would not come, the words lost in a breathless void of surprise and sadness. He shook his head numbly. Finally, after what seemed to be forever, he murmured, "I never meant-"

"Silence!" roared Astaldogald. The Elf's eyes flashed and he pressed the sword closer, forcing Aragorn to tilt up his head. "You do not know the extent of the damage done to my family! You do know not the pain you have caused my father and brothers! You do not know the depth of the despair you have wrought within me! You vile monster!"

The accusation stung, and Aragorn could not control his temper. "If you feel despair, it is of your own making! Your hate and jealousy drove him away! You cannot fault me for offering him love where you would not!"

Astaldogald sneered, "What do you know of love? What do you know of honor and duty? You were called by birth to rule this land of filthy mortals! Yet this you shirked, and as though envious of the Elves you lived among us, spreading your contemptuous virtue! You disgust me, son of Arathorn. You all disgust me!" Aragorn jerked under the barrage of harsh insults. "This war, this black, reeking shadow that spreads from Mordor is the burden of men! It was your kin that kept the One Ring, and the only moment in which it might be destroyed came and went. What horrors have endured for the sake of your greed! My people suffer as the black smoke of Dol Goldur chokes our home! The pain of seeing our great forests shrink gnaws at my father's heart. And for what, I ask you!" The words came faster and faster, tinged by heat and accusation. "What have you sacrificed for the sake of Middle Earth? What has any of you? My brother gave all he had and was destroyed for it! And in the end, he still turned to a man for acceptance… A man, and the very man who betrayed him!"

Aragorn did not understand, but he was not permitted to question. Astaldogald fumed, his glare smoldering and his tone seething. "You will not speak, Elessar! You will not absolve yourself!" Aragorn closed his eyes as the blade poked closer at his throat. There was nowhere that he might run. The realization brought a terrible dread to his straining heart. "You will pay for what you have done…"

He held his breath and cried silently, expecting the cold edge to slit his throat.

It never came.

"Astaldogald! Stop this!"

Could it be? Aragorn could not breathe. He could not move or speak or even think. He was trapped in a void, where there was nothing but hope. His heart stood still. He thought he might not be able to turn, but that familiar voice echoing in his ears compelled him. And it was. It was!

"Legolas…" he hoarsely whispered.

It was indeed Legolas, but his dear friend was changed beyond any reckoning. Aragorn could only stare at him as the lithe being approached as quickly as he could, the mixture of relief and horror the ranger experienced so strong that it nearly toppled him. What had been done to him? Legolas was gaunt and pale. His hair was pulled back in a tail, raggedly torn. His face was dark with dirt and bruises. Blood covered him, whether his own or someone else's Aragorn could not tell.

He met Legolas' eyes. The pain became excruciating. Those eyes that he had so often seen wink in laughter, deepen with seriousness, glow with all the beauty of life… They were still and vacant. Dull. They showed a nightmare of agony and terror, of a shattered soul. The dark stain of something wicked and vile.

Behind Legolas came his other brother, the Elf prince pale and frightened. Faramir and the soldier ran down the hill, their eyes wide. The young lord shook his head, obviously furious with himself for his lapse in protection. The other stunned man pulled forward his horse. They stood, unsure of what to do or how to act to protect their king. The situation was tense and strange

Everything came so fast. The world spun and then crashed upon him. He stepped back, turning to run towards his friend, but tripped on a rut in the ground. He gasped and fell backward, landing most unceremoniously on his rear. The blazing ball of the sun was overhead, and he felt dizzy and lightheaded. He had forgotten in his shock Astaldogald and the sword. The sword!

There was a flash, and Aragorn cringed. A split second later a second wink of light followed, and metal screamed upon metal. A shower of sparks fell upon him. He chanced opening his eyes.

Two blades were locked above him in a contest of strengths. Aragorn skittered back, watching in disbelief, as Legolas shoved up on his sword. The weapons came apart with a shrill shriek, but Astaldogald did not lose his ground. Something new shone in his simmering gaze. In the silence that followed, Aragorn felt a new tension permeate the still air. This feud between brothers was deeper, beyond his grasp or understanding. The same violent, hurt glint came to Legolas' eyes.

"You will not stop me, Greenleaf," Astaldogald hissed harshly. The sword whizzed up, held in an offensive and threatening stance. "Unless you wish me to end your pitiful existence as well. I would be much obliged to see the stain you have become wiped away!"

Legolas did not speak, his pale face livid and taut. Aragorn watched him with wide eyes as he stepped before him, standing protectively between his fuming brother and the ranger. Astaldogald smirked. He seemed a creature twisted and tortured. Aragorn vaguely wondered what had happened between these brothers to so destroy their bond. And what of Boromir? Yet these unanswered questions were soon forgotten in a wave of panic and concern. "Child, do not interfere!"

"You will not take another life," declared Legolas slowly and coldly. He lifted his own weapon, tightening his grip upon the hilt. Aragorn watched the sun dance and glint on the blade, and recognized it immediately. The blade of Gondor. But if Legolas had Boromir's sword… He gasped. Astaldogald had killed Boromir.

In his moment of daze, the fight began. He sprang to his feet as Astaldogald rounded on Legolas, slashing at him like lightning with his sword. Legolas countered, but Aragorn could see he was hobbled. He limped terribly and nearly dropped the sword from the force of the strike. The ranger drew a short breath. Legolas was a deadly warrior, but he was less able with a sword. He could never hope to fight his own brother when he was this weakened!

Yet Legolas growled and dug his feet into the ground, shoving Astaldogald back with a clank of his sword. Astaldogald returned with another slash that Legolas sidestepped. Aragorn stepped back as the two sparred, watching with awe at their speed and power. He had seen Elves battle one another before, but in those instances it was for show or often instruction. Never had he witnessed a fight so ferocious in its intensity. Something far beyond anything Aragorn could understand drove them. Elegant feints. Powerful thrusts and blocks. The sun burned and scorched all it touched, but Legolas and Astaldogald did not falter. They danced in their swordplay, danced to a song of whizzing blades and beating hearts. Danced to the hymn of life and death. And for what? What had happened to his dearest friend? Who had turned brother upon brother?

I have.

The guilt and terror drove him to helpless frustration. He looked to Aratadarion, who stood like a lost child, uncertain of the reality of what he was watching. "Do something," he demanded, his voice heated.

The meek Elf merely shook his head, unable to tear his eyes from his fighting siblings. "I cannot," he whimpered. It was obvious that this tore at him. "I swore to him I would not."

There came a cry, and Aragorn snapped his gaze forward. Astaldogald was wearing down Legolas. The Elf prince drove his singing sword to his brother, and Legolas pulled up his own blade in a late block, deflecting the deadly blow. The force knocked the younger brother back, sending him stumbling. Astaldogald wasted no time in attacking again, and he appeared to feel no remorse or restraint. Had he lost all sense of truth? Would he slay his own kin?

The Elf prince's face was a picture of aggression. He charged Legolas, a blur of motion and metal, and Legolas buckled. His was obviously weak on his feet, and the strain of the fight would undoubtedly overwhelm him. Yet his remained standing, and with a cry, returned a strike. Astaldogald had obviously thought himself safe, and it was an arrogant and premature assumption, for he had no time to react. The tip of Legolas' blade sliced Astaldogald's retreating face along his cheekbone, from his eye to his lip.

Silence. Then Legolas collapsed, gasping and shaking, to his knees. Astaldogald reeled back, his hand pressed to his face. Bright blood seeped through his fingers. Aragorn watched numbly, limp in shock and uncertainty. Then Astaldogald grunted hotly. He as well was quivering, but with a rage akin to lightning. He advanced again on his brother.

Legolas could not hope to fight like this. Aragorn would not stand idly by and allow his dearest friend to die!

Andúril came clean from its sheath with a metallic ring. With a hearty battle cry, Aragorn lunged forward, his weapon raised, and came to Legolas' defense. He smacked his sword against the Elf's and threw his weight into the advance, pushing his opponent back and digging his feet into the dry ground for leverage. But Astaldogald had anticipated his attack and avoided the power of it by sidestepping with agility unmatched, the swords screeching as they rolled off one another. The Elf twirled faster than he could detect and slammed his foot into Aragorn's passing back. Pain flowered through him, and he could not control his momentum. He could not stop. There was a blur of gray stone before him.

In that instance he cursed himself for his stupidity. Then he crashed into the stone wall. The world shattered into a million shards of the brightest light. The shards fell after, and he followed them into darkness.

Aratadarion felt himself jump as the king of men collided with the parapet with a harsh thud. His sword fell from limp fingers and he slumped down weakly. He was clearly unconscious, unable to defend himself, and Astaldogald stalked closer like a dark menace.

He felt lost and useless. Had he been mad when he had agreed to allow Legolas to face Astaldogald alone? Had his reason abandoned him? He had only wished to give the devastated Legolas some sense of strength, of confidence, of self-worth! He had seen the depression siphon the esteem and hope from his brother's eyes, seen the weight of his trauma press upon him. Letting Legolas deal with Astaldogald had served that purpose, and another, perhaps a bit selfish. He did not know if he had the strength to contend with his scorned twin.

Now they would all pay for his stupidity!

Yet he could do nothing as Astaldogald approached Aragorn, his sword poised to strike. He felt glued to the ground, leaden with uncertainty and terror, paralyzed with a fear he could not conquer. Time slowed and each step of his enraged twin seemed to last forever. This sick vengeance! Would its hungry appetite never be satiated? How much blood could be split in its name? He could only think, feeling utterly numb.

"No," Legolas gasped. Aratadarion shifted his gaze to his younger brother. Legolas jabbed his sword into the earth and pushed himself up with both hands braced upon the hilt. Aratadarion could see the sweat upon his reddened face. The grimace held tight and he shook with the effort.

Astaldogald stopped in his advance, turning to regard Legolas. His eyes were narrowed, venomous and ominous. Legolas was breathing heavily, strands of his hair coming lose to fall around his face. But he did not back down and raised his sword. "You must kill me to kill him," snarled Legolas, "for I will not break my vows easily!"

Aratadarion stiffened. He had wished vehemently that Legolas might simply remain down and let this end. But he knew his brothers. Both had strong hearts and pride enough to bolster them in whatever their goal. Neither would easily submit. This was far from over.

If Astaldogald felt anything but chilly fury, it did not reach his eyes. He seemed a monster, distant from him. Whatever precious bond they had before shared was completely broken, and Aratadarion watched powerlessly as his twin raised his sword once more against their brother.

In the tense moment, the young man behind him jogged around the furious Elves to the fallen king. Aratadarion vaguely recognized him, but could do nothing but envy him his ability to act. He cursed himself for his fear and weakness! He was not worthy of being his father'son! None would stand and watch! None would let this happen! He tried to rationalize this pathetic inability to act. He had promised Legolas, and he could feel no connection to his twin as he once did. He loved both dearly, and could condemn or condone neither. That is no reason! You insipid creature!

The fight resumed, but Legolas was much weakened. The heat and his injuries had retarded him greatly, and he could barely keep up with Astaldogald's swift jabs and counters. He was obviously expending all his energy just to defend himself. Aratadarion felt tears well up inside him. Elbereth, stop them! Legolas yelped and stumbled, crashing to his knees. Astaldogald raised his shining blade and slammed it downward. His youngest brother barely had time to lift his own weapon and block the blow. Please, act where I cannot! Astaldogald's face was lax, expressionless, as he kicked Legolas' wrist. The sword flew from his hands. In one swift movement, his twin raised his own and slammed it down.

"No!"

But it was too late. Legolas screamed as the blade stabbed into his chest.

They were still then.

It was a peculiar thing to see, and Aratadarion did not believe it could have happened. A thousand things flashed through his stricken mind in that motionless instance. His twin's laughter in their youth. His gentle teasing, his loving encouragement. Legolas' bright blue eyes as they explored the beautiful forests of Greenwood left untouched by Sauron's putrid hand. Astaldogald wrestling with Legolas. Singing. Their mother's calming words. Their father's firm expectations. Vardaithil's silent assurances. Debating. Cold, hurt glances. Harsh words that could never be retracted. Tears. Death. Fighting with loud shouts echoing through their father's hall. The arguments had tore at him, beating upon his meek heart. Still, he had never been afraid. He had never thought it would come to this. One brother killing another!

"No, Astaldogald!" he exclaimed, stepping forward with his hands open. But he said no more. What could he, to explain that this horror had gone on too long, too far? What could he?

But he did not need to, for Astaldogald understood everything that had remained unvoiced in that moment. His twin stopped his descending blade that would deliver the final wound. For a moment more he remained stationary, his arms raised. He looked up, tears streaming down his face.

This too was not enough. And it was all in vain. Aratadarion blinked.

A splash of bright blood. Astaldogald opened his mouth in a soundless cry and stood still, the tip of a large sword extending from his chest. Aratadarion stared at this scene, not making sense of it, his jumbled mind lost. It seemed a queer thing, this sword running through his twin. He had but winked, a split-second of darkness, and there it was! How daft! How unexpected! Surely he was imagining it!

Astaldogald then jerked as the sword was ripped free. He collapsed forward to his knees, his face wound tight in a wince of pain and disbelief. His eyes sought Aratadarion's, pleading, asking, apologizing. His blood stained weapon dropped from limp fingers. Then he fell, like a mighty warrior that has finally so unfortunately received the mortal wound in the thick of battle. Fell and lay limply beside his younger brother's motionless body.

What can follow such an occurrence? What can be said? What can be done? Who has the strength to overcome?

The sun rained down its fiery fury, and for the longest moment there was nothing. Nothing but shock. Rage. Sorrow. The fight had seemed to last forever. A few horrible moments, stretching to infinity. Where could there be an absolution?

Finally one moved. Aragorn released a slow, shaking breath, his lowered, murderous blade dripping Astaldogald's blood. This he returned to its scabbard and he stumbled to his knees. "Legolas!" he cried. The ranger quivered in helpless frustration as he touched Legolas' pale neck. Blood pooled around him, spreading from his upper left chest. Aragorn spoke quickly, softly, his voice twisted by heavy emotion.

But Aratadarion did not hear. His feet carried him, but he did not feel himself walk. His knees touched the ground, but he did not know the hot dirt beneath them. His hands moved, and his heart did not beat and his lungs did not breathe. He gently rolled his prone twin to his back and pulled him into his embrace. He thought perhaps he would see Astaldogald's eyes glisten or hear his voice. But it was not so, for his twin was already dead.

Tears streamed down his cheeks. He hugged the Elf's form to him tightly, not wanting to let go, not wanting to believe. Their life together haunted him then, tantalizing him into denial. But it hurt too much to reject the truth.

The pain inside stabbed at his heart. A quiet where there were once the songs of his brothers. The one who knew him better than anyone. The one that brought life and love to everyone who knew him. The silence was deafening, and for a moment he thought he might go mad. He sadly wished he would because nothing disturbed him more than this awful calm overtaking him. Anger. His anger became a shield around his wrecked soul, a barrier against the pain and sorrow and despair. Could he use this? It was a foreign feeling but so very comforting. In this rancorous tranquility he did not have to feel. His hate made him stronger. Like Legolas, would he succumb to his anger? Like Astaldogald, would he give reign to his vengeance? He felt the weight of his own sword at his hip. He had never used it to kill. His blurry vision centered on Astaldogald's bloody blade. How easy it would be to take back what he had lost, to exact punishment for his twin's murder! It seemed so satisfying idea that he thought he might.

Never!

He crushed the anger. It would not take him as it had so many others! It would not!

The fury would consume no more!

"This will end," he whispered. A solemn vow. "This will end because I will end it." Then he pressed his lips to his twin's cold cheek and rested him upon the ground. Astaldogald's face had relaxed, as though he eternally slept in serenity. He whispered a soft, short Elvish blessing before rising. He felt numb in a way, and he was glad for it since there was yet much left in this battle. He would mourn later when the time allowed it. For now, breathing deeply and sobbing softly was all he could do.

A cool breeze unexpectedly swept across the plain, ruffling the grass. It was a gentle zephyr to ferry his brother's soul to the Halls of Mandos. He thought he should wish to accompany it, but he knew better. The way of things became as it had because of what Astaldogald did. His fate was his and his alone.

The shadow was gone, and Aratadarion was alone for the first time in his life.

I am strong because of you. I am strong!

And he was.

This was not happening. Aragorn pressed his hands over the rush of blood spilling from Legolas' chest. His mind was racing, wrought with terror and panic and anger. He had just gotten Legolas back. Damn him if he lost his dear friend now!

"Stay still, Legolas," he demanded in a rushed whisper. Legolas only whimpered, his face scrunched in pain that must have been agonizing. His half-lidded eyes were a picture of sorrow and delirium, a haze of pain and despair. They glistened with tears.

Legolas' hand came to grasp his own. "Aragorn…" he whispered weakly. His lips moved but he could form no words.

Aragorn shook his head. "Do not speak, my friend. Save your strength," he admonished gently. Raspy breathing seemed unbearably loud, booming in Aragorn's ears, and he struggled to concentrate. His head ached tremendously from his collision with the wall, his heart pounding behind his eyes. Sweat clung to him, and the heat caused the world to waver. He felt dizzy and weak. Cast it aside! You must save him!

He pulled his hands from the laceration. The sword had sliced clear through Legolas, and it was letting blood loose like a torrent. The hot red pulsed against his fingers. He could not see how severe the wound truly was because of the heavy bleeding. It was certainly serious, possibly fatal. Aragorn swallowed uncertainly. He could not heal such an injury here!

"Here, my Lord!" Faramir frantically declared, drawing his attention. The young man had cut with his dagger the sleeve of his surcoat and this he offered to Aragorn. The ranger took the fabric with a grateful nod. Faramir's eyes narrowed in concern. "Are you well, sir?"

Aragorn nodded, swallowing his nausea. Grasping the cloth in his bloodied hands, he pressed it over Legolas' wound. His friend gave a tortured groan through clenched teeth, his breathing a strained rasp. "Stop…" he whispered in Elvish. "Please do not!"

"Hush, Legolas!" The sound of his once strong companion's voice so weakened and terrified made Aragorn feel sick. This wound was too serious. They needed the skillful hands of a healer. Aragorn peered closer at the body before him. There was something more that was wrong, something terrible and dangerous. Those dull eyes and the heavy shroud of darkness that seemed to hang over Legolas plagued him. He had seen Elves wounded before, but never had they bore such an ill aura. It seemed as though the glow had been drained from his friend, leaving a dying husk of a creature. Numbly he shook his head in helpless denial. "What has Saruman done to you?" he asked.

"You must hurry, Aragorn," came Aratadarion's voice from behind him. Aragorn turned in his crouch, one bloody hand pressed to Legolas' highbrow, the other struggling to staunch the blood flow. The Elf prince looked shaken and particularly ashen, his face streaked with tears.

For a moment Aragorn expected an attack of some sort, whether physical or verbal. The truth of what he had done had not yet sunk its ruthless fangs into him. He had killed a person. No, he had murdered an Elf prince and a brother! In that moment he had seen Astaldogald raise his sword to strike the fallen Legolas, and he had acted to save his friend's life. This seemed a weak rationale. Still, he could not help but voice it, seeking something from Aratadarion. Acceptance. Forgiveness. "I thought he would kill-"

"There is not time for it now," Aratadarion declared softly. The Elf prince closed his eyes against tears. "Take my brother, I beseech you. You can do more for him than I. But I must warn you that something far worse than this wound ails him, and that you must act quickly to save his life!"

Aragorn nodded numbly, not understanding but not finding it within himself to question. Something dreadful had obviously happened, horrible enough to bring Aratadarion this pain that he wore so plainly on his face. The meek Elf was wrought with the pain of losing his twin and the fear that another brother might yet die. Guilt that was ranker than the most fetid of waters bubbled in Aragorn, and he regretted the crime he had committed then if only for Aratadarion's sake. He had meant to protect Legolas. He had not wanted to kill Astaldogald. What a wretched thing to witness! He realized the scar such a happening would leave upon Aratadarion's gentle spirit. No matter the outcome, he would have suffered.

Aratadarion turned then. "I will take his body to my brother. I have obligations to my family that outweigh any truce I hold with you." He sighed and looked to the sky, as if battling tears. "I will return to your castle, though."

Faramir spoke quickly to the wide-eyed and thunderstruck soldier that had escorted the two Elves to Aragorn's audience. What an audience it had been! "Lend the Elf your horse, corporal," the young man barked.

The soldier's reverie ended, and he gave a curt salute. Then he led his horse forward. The air was stiff and hot in the moments that followed. The man and the Elf struggled to lift Astaldogald's heavy body. As they faltered with the weight, Faramir stood of his own accord and jumped to Aratadarion's side. "Mount, my Lord. We will pass him to you." The Elf seemed to doubt a moment, hesitant to leave his twin's side even in death. Then he gave an exhausted, sorrowful nod. He climbed atop the saddle. With a grunt, the two men lifted Astaldogald's body to his twin brother's embrace. Aratadarion cradled him like a newborn a moment, his face tight in silent weeping, his eyes devastated. Tears and blood dripped to the ground.

Faramir offered the Elf Astaldogald's sword. Then Aratadarion turned his horse. "Where is my eldest brother?" he inquired softly.

The young lord of Gondor answered, "At the western border. Follow this wall and you will find him."

Aratadarion nodded. Aragorn suddenly could not bear to let the suffering Elf go. He could not bear to end this horrible event so coldly. The burden of his guilt weighed upon him. "I am so sorry," he called to the Elf.

The other did not respond immediately. The hot air hung between, stagnant with blood and death and tensions left unresolved. The intangible barrier between them felt impenetrable. This was a distance that might never be crossed, Aragorn feared. But then Aratadarion replied. He did not turn around. His words were so soft that at first the ranger doubted he spoke at all. "I believe you." Then he spurred his horse into a gallop.

But he could not watch Aratadarion leave. Legolas gasped, struggling for breath. His fist was twisted in Aragorn's tunic tightly, but the ranger could feel his grip waning. They had little time! The archer would soon bleed to death!

"Help me, Faramir," gasped Aragorn as he crawled to Legolas' head. He grasped his friend's shoulders and lifted him. Faramir quickly scrambled to his feet and grabbed Legolas' legs. Together they lifted the fallen form. To the idle trooper he ordered, his voice pinched in effort, "Take the fallen blade!" The man skittered to do as asked.

Up the hill some distance were the soldiers holding the reins to their mounts. The men had led the horses to a spot where the grasses were a bit greener to graze and at that distance had remained oblivious to the fight below. Seeing their lords approach in such a state spurred them into action, and they tugged the horses forward.

Aragorn stumbled. The dull agony in his head had suddenly become piercing, and the heated world spun and spun around him. He swallowed the bile in the back of his throat. In the harsh light and baking sun, this gentle incline seemed a massive slope and Legolas unwieldy heavy. Yet he forced his aching body onward, knowing too much depended on his stamina now. Faramir trudged behind him; he could hear the other's rushed breathing. Legolas was silent.

Finally they reached the men. "Can you hold him?" Aragorn asked his friend. Faramir nodded and they rapidly yet tenderly adjusted the unconscious Legolas so that he rested in Faramir's arms. Aragorn hopped onto Hasufel and grabbed the outstretched reins. Then, with the help of the other men, they lifted Legolas to the great horse.

Aragorn held tight to Legolas, supporting the archer's lolling head against his shoulder. The third soldier gave to Faramir Legolas' fallen blade and the young man blindly took it, his squinted gaze never leaving Aragorn. "I shall follow you, Lord," said Faramir, his face, though tired and sweaty, resolute. With nothing more than a nod to Faramir, the ranger spurred Hasufel into a powerful gallop.

Then they were flying, thundering across the great plain. Minas Tirith rose in the distance and though the ride would not be long, it seemed an infinite distance to Aragorn. The massive beast below him sensed his panic and poured more speed into the run. The king kept his mind on the matter at hand, watching the vast grassland for danger to keep focused. He did not want to think of what had happened or what still might. His jumbled mind swam in liquid fire. The wind cooled him, but he thought he might burn alive.

Once he glanced down at Legolas. His dear friend's face seemed so strange and different, so utterly without vigor, that he grew more concerned and had to divert his gaze. "Something far worse than this wound ails him." He closed his eyes. Let me not be too late, he pleaded. Was there a power to answer such a request? Was there use in hope or truth in fate? "Please," he whispered.

The wind did not answer.

Arwen paced her room. The heat had seeped into even in her room. No breeze ruffled the silk curtains adorning her windows no matter how often she glanced wistfully in their direction. She pressed her palms to her eyes, feeling disgusting and sweaty. The effects of heat were something to which she was still coming accustomed to in her new condition. Elvish equanimity in varying elements was something of which she had blindly taken advantage. The race's resilience to exhaustion and hunger as well she missed. As much as she had sought to deny it, Aragorn was of course right. Her journey had worn her significantly. Though she had tried napping, she was never able to doze for more than a few minutes. She had been unable to eat, too rattled to settle her stomach. The reason made her even more frustrated.

The same frustrated sense of helplessness assailed her. Each time she settled into her bed, it clung to her mind like a foul odor. Each time she tried to eat from the plate of fruit and meat sent her by the cooks, she felt anxiety raise her gooseflesh, and the food remained untouched. It angered her that this feeling still tormented her even after traveling the great distance from Rivendell. It was as though her journey had been in vain, and the horrible thing she had come to prevent would occur anyway. Aragorn's denial of her request to join him in his trip to the battlefield irritated her a bit, but she had understood it all the same. She was no soldier, and her reasons were more personal than practical. She wished to be near him now, after so long. She wished to see him hearty and hale, to have him assure her that all was well and would continue to be so. But he had left her to pace. Something was horribly wrong.

There came a great ruckus outside. She turned, her skirts swishing with the movement. A second later someone was rapping at her door. "Do come in!" she called.

A maid opened it and stepped inside. "My Lady," she said, somewhat winded. "You must come quickly. Your Lord sends for you and it concerns a most urgent matter!"

Arwen's heart leapt into her throat. She felt her pulse rush as she quickly followed her maid out the room. Could her worst fears have come true? Her mind was too frightened to consider the answer.

The maid led her through the halls of Gondor then. There was a blur of motion around her, soldiers and lords stopping to stare, servants sheepishly avoiding their quick steps. The halls of Minas Tirith seemed a maze, and Arwen was too jumbled to follow their flight. It seemed a long time before they reach their destination, but only a few minutes had passed. There ahead down the hall was a series of rooms. Arwen smelled herbs and medicines, their sweet scent pungent on the hot air. The healers' quarters.

Her heart bled. Please let Aragorn be well!

She was led to a large room. Within it was a large bed and a bath. The room smelled clean and fresh, and a few plants adorned the tables and shelves. Arwen caught her breath then, glancing around. "Stay here a moment, my Lady. They will need your help, I am told!" The maid then fluttered away, rushing to some other task.

Arwen hardly had a moment to understand what she had said before again the door burst open. Her face fractured in shock and fear. "Estel!"

The man that thundered through the door was indeed her lover, but he seemed so torn and frightened that Arwen hardly recognized him. His face was red and bloody, and he was gasping for breath. Red covered his gray tunic. He stood there momentarily, holding her gaze, his eyes filled with a storm of terror and grief and panic. He seemed so frazzled, so utterly helpless and lost, that Arwen grew more alarmed.

Aragorn staggered inside, and in his arms was a form wrapped in a gray, blood stained cloth. To the guard behind he bellowed, "Where is the healer?"

"He comes, oh Lord, but the heat and the war preparations-"

Aragorn released a frustrated howl as he reached the bed. The body in his arms he set upon it. A flash of pale blond hair. A strong jaw. She gasped. "Legolas?"

The limp body was undeniably her dear friend! She stumbled towards the bed, her quivering hand covering her mouth. Something inside her throbbed with a flurry of confused sensation. He was alive! Legolas was alive! But there was more. Ai, such a horror! Blood. She pulled away the cloak from his chest and saw the wound. It spilled his life in a hot fury.

She did not understand, but there was not the time to make sense of it. Somehow, some way, her dear friend, her brother had been returned to her, and she would not allow this gift to disappear!

Aragorn was already in motion, ripping open Legolas' tunic. He was breathing heavily, pulling the cloth from the gushing hole. Bloody, shaking fingers fumbled with the clasp of the cloak about Legolas' neck. "The sword went through him. He bleeds horridly and relentlessly."

Be calm. You must be calm to help him! Arwen took a deep breath and closed her eyes briefly to compose herself. Then she shifted her attention to Legolas, brushing away her pain and fears. "We must act quickly," she announced quickly. She laid her hand upon his brow and cringed. The warning within her amplified, and she felt weak and sick suddenly. She recoiled her touch, uncertain and fearful. "What happened to him?" she asked breathlessly.

Aragorn shook his head helplessly, his guilt obvious on his tortured face. "His brother spoke a warning. 'Something far worse ails him,' he told me. Saruman held him captive for many days!" Arwen returned her gaze to her fallen friend. Legolas was horribly thin, and his chest was a mottled collection of aged wounds, bruises, and scars. Her heart wept then for the suffering of her dearest friend. What had the dark wizard done to him? "You see it as clear as I, my love," Aragorn breathed. The ranger gasped. "I cannot explain it, but there is a foul shroud of dark magic clinging to him…"

Arwen did not have any answers to their questions either, but she knew well what he meant. A shadow darker than night emanated from Legolas. It had conquered his once gentle and pure spirit. She could not imagine the malevolent power required to do such a thing. She did not want to.

A voice called from behind them. "My Lord!" It was Faramir, son of Denethor. The young man appeared winded.

Aragorn stood then, and began to relay orders with unquestionable vehemence. "Go, Faramir, and rally the men to their posts. Send for Lord Vardaithil and have his troops coordinate with Brodderband." The young lord nodded and made for the door. "Seek out Gandalf the White! We have need of his aid here with Legolas!" Shouting echoed through the hall as Faramir rushed about what he had been told to do.

Arwen returned her attention to Legolas. "Fresh cloth," she said to one of the maids, "and water!" The woman nodded quickly and fled to the shelves to find what they needed. Then Arwen leaned close to Legolas' face. Aragorn rose, turning to the shelves, seeking herbs that might reduce the bleeding and prevent infection. She heard bottles rattle and low swearing.

A moan. Whispered words in Elvish. Startled she peered close to Legolas' face. His eyes fluttered weakly. She saw their nightmare, their pain. A tale of a curse of unspeakable torment. She had never before seen such a thing! Surely it was not possible! Her heart all but stopped as she began to understand. Something far worse… Let this not be true!

Legolas grabbed her hand. A glint of lucidity flashed in his soulless blue eyes. His hold was powerful, his gaze disturbing. His lips moved faintly. She could barely hear the words. Aragorn stood over her then, leaning down over her shoulder. His face was a twisted expression of desolation. "What does he say?" he asked.

A cold terror washed over her when she understood what her wounded friend was saying. Denial hurt like a knife. "Nothing," she lied. She could not bear to think it! "He is delirious."

Legolas pleaded again, and she numbly shook her head. She would not commit such a horror! Apparently that was all the strength the archer had left in him, for he gasped and lapsed back into a deep sleep.

She closed her eyes as his crushing grip relinquished her hand. His words would not leave her, and if what she feared was indeed true, she could not help but see their merit. Do not think it! Do not! Help him!

Shouting. A soldier poked his head into the room. "The healer, my Lord!" he announced.

The woman returned with the cloth. Arwen set to pressing them over the bleeding injury, praying she might somehow stop the flow. She forced her training as a healer to bring her strength and guide her mind and hands. Her father had taught her much in the medicinal arts; she must have all her concentration to do what was required! Aragorn demanded that the man enter.

There was a flurry of rushed orders. They came from her lips. No one questioned, for she was an Elf; she was best suited to aid another Elf. Herbs were boiled, medicines concocted. Blood soaked clothes were traded for fresh ones, and the healer mere minutes later prepared to stitch the wound.

She tucked away her trepidation, her guilt, her terror. Though her concentration and will were strong, they could not completely blot out the wailing of her heart. She felt distant, lost, surrounded by the pain. Those three words Legolas had spoken over and over again raced inside her, stomping out all thoughts and sound, like a hideous chant. "Let me die. Let me die. Let me die."

I will not. She grabbed his limp hand and closed her eyes. I cannot!

In the next few hours, she worked hurriedly to save his life. Her mind was intent upon the task, but her heart… Her heart was utterly torn.


	25. For Gondor

Minas Tirith was in a state of precariously controlled chaos. Faramir had rarely seen the city as such and it unnerved him. As he flew through the halls of the massive tower, he passed people teetering on the edge of panic. An air of fright and frustration clung to the halls, permeating even the quietest of places with an urgent sense of peril. Maids rushed by, jogging where space permitted. Lords spoke quietly in hushed whispers of doubts and dismay. Soldiers and guards raced through the long, stone corridors like ants, skittering in a frenzy. Calm was completely fleeting. The city was preparing for disaster.

Faramir nervously chewed the inside of his cheek as he pushed his way through the crowds of people in the halls of his father's manor, stepping upon feet and narrowly dodging collisions. Normally he would have apologized or at least excused himself, but time was rapidly disappearing and there was much on his mind. Not the least of which, of course, was a terrible discovery he had made mere minutes before. His new king had been quite taken with the threat to the Elf they had encountered at the battle site. Faramir had watched the incident with great concern and little understanding, but he had opted not to question. He had sensed quickly that the exchange of words, swords, and lives was not his to comprehend. Still, there was one thing that had become painfully clear. The Elf that had saved the son of Arathorn, Legolas, had carried the Blade of Gondor. That could only mean one thing, and such an implication made his heart heavy with sorrow and body leaden with exhaustion.

Boromir was dead. He was not sure how he felt, or even how he should feel. In truth, he had assumed as much from their last meeting. His brother had had the most haunted look in his eyes, and such guilt often drove one to outrageous feats and sacrifices. But he could not deny the shock or pain or fury. Faramir doubted he would have the time to contemplate the matter and sort out his emotions until this battle was concluded. Sadly he realized the only person able to answer his questions about Boromir was Legolas, and the Elf looked mortally wounded. The young man might have inquired from Aragorn the knowledge he sought, but the timing was undeniably inappropriate. Waiting frustrated him. However, there was no other option, and Faramir felt certain the Elf would die, taking with him whatever information he possessed about Boromir.

The sword now rested upon his hip. It was his to bear, after all, though tears had stung his eyes when he had strapped it to his belt. The blade rested in the hands of the Steward of Gondor. Boromir. His father. His grandfather. Such a sad manner of inheriting his birthright! The burden felt heavy and awkward.

Two ladies stilled their conversation as he neared, but he did not miss their words concerning their new king. He shot them a harsh glance, and the two women dropped their gazes sheepishly, obviously ashamed of their conduct. Or ashamed that I caught them in their insubordination. As much as he tried to be angry, he could not hold to the feeling as he passed them. He was a man of compassion and reason, and he could not in good conscience fault them for their doubts. Aragorn had hardly proven himself a worthy leader. He had gone from a jail cell, labeled as a traitor, to the throne, christened as the long lost heir of Isildur. It was an abrupt and radical change. And his father's death had not helped the transition any… Faramir closed his eyes against the pain. He could hardly expect the people of Gondor to simply trust a new leader on a whim, especially in such a dark time! Aragorn had neither been crowned nor announced, and only rumors answered the questions of the citizens. It had the makings of a dangerous situation.

Faramir ground his teeth together as he walked. His new liege was not improving upon his control of the kingdom now. He could sympathize certainly with Aragorn's hurt; seeing a close friend, which is what the young man assumed this Legolas Elf to be, dying was a trying matter that made concentration and duty difficult prospects. Faramir knew little of the Elves, but their endurance and prowess in battle was rumored to be awesome. He could attest to that now having witnessed the fight mere minutes before. He could also gather that Legolas was a son of Thranduil, the king of Mirkwood. The Elf that had died was his brother. One dead Elf prince, and another barely clinging to this world… Elendil help us if the King of Mirkwood should ever learn of this! These were pressing concerns, but the defense of Gondor was a greater matter! Aragorn had ordered him to handle that, however, and to find Gandalf. The young man doubted a wizard even so powerful as Gandalf could save the Elf now. Faramir felt frustrated. Aragorn should realize that his calling as king was more important, and that there was little to do for the Elf now other than ease his passing. It was tragic, and the thought disgusted Faramir, but the king must prioritize, and he was not gaining the favor of his subjects by brushing them aside for the sake of a lost Elf friend.

But Faramir was ever the conscientious thinker, and he quickly realized that nothing was ever so simple. He trusted Aragorn as their king, their hope, and as such he wanted the ranger to put all his effort into directly saving Gondor. But if Legolas were to simply die without Aragorn's aid, Mirkwood would surely rethink their assistance. The Last Alliance would flounder!

The thoughts bombarded his muddled mind until he was riddled with anxiety. It was then he chastised himself. These things are beyond you. Concentrate on what you must do to aid your king. Orders were absolute. As long as he maintained faith in Aragorn, others would follow his lead and mutiny would be a distant concern. And that meant upholding the chain of command and obeying orders. He must locate Brodderband and arrange the troop movements. He had to find Gandalf the White.

He pushed open doors to the soldier's quarters. A page had told him Brodderband was among his men, and the young boy was true to his word. The aged man stood with armed soldiers all around, relaying orders with a booming voice. When he caught sight of his lord, he brushed the others away momentarily. Faramir approached rapidly, finding himself winded from his thoughts and flight through Minas Tirith. He cursed himself for such an ungainly appearance and straightened his attire. Brodderband saluted him crisply. "My Lord," he said, eyeing Faramir with a steady gaze, "preparations are coming along nicely, if I might say so."

Faramir resisted the urge to smile. Of all his father's advisors, Brodderband had always been his favorite. The man was colorful and warm, full of wonderfully exciting battle stories and old lore. He had achieved the status he had through hard work and dedication. Brodderband was certainly not Gondor's greatest strategist or even greatest soldier. However, he had such a fierce companionship with his men. He spent time with them, respected them as equals and individuals, and their well being always came first in his decisions. For that, they had given him their undying loyalty. They would follow him into any battle. Such a command made Brodderband a powerful ally and advantage. "Good to hear," Faramir said, "but we must move quickly to the field. The king has surveyed the ground and found it acceptable."

"We most certainly will try our damnedest to defend it," Brodderband declared proudly.

Faramir did not doubt him. "I have little time to speak, so I shall be brief. Your orders are to form a line alone the northern wall. Have men carry wood to construct a platform upon the parapet. We are to station as many archers as feasible upon the wall to rain firepower upon the Orcs as they charge."

Brodderband nodded. "An excellent idea," he remarked.

"The wall needs reinforcement and repair as well. The element of surprise is too valuable an asset to waste, so work quickly and quietly. I am certain the Dark Lord has as many scouts tracking us as we do him."

"And the Elves?"

Faramir cringed inwardly. What would that other Elf, the meek one that had watched the fight, say to his commander? It should not be his concern, and he dismissed his worry. "I have sent messengers to Lord Vardaithil, the commander and prince of Mirkwood, advising him of the situation. Lord Aragorn assured their cooperation. You are to coordinate with them in creating the defense. Mirkwood's archers are among the finest in all Middle Earth, so place them wisely upon the ramparts."

"Right," Brodderband responded. "I shall keep an open communication between our two forces."

Faramir bobbed his head, his mind quickly calculating. There seemed to be so little time. They could not afford to have any problems! "Move with all speed possible. We must have that wall reinforced and our border guarded by sunset. They may attack at any moment. Do you understand?"

"Of course, sir. It will be done."

The strength in the old man's voice heartened the lord. "Good. I must take my leave. I shall join you on the field when time permits."

"Very good, sir."

Then he was off again. He tried to keep his mind from wandering as he charged through the halls. The commotion seemed to have heightened two fold. Faramir felt a bit overwhelmed. How was he to find Gandalf in such a mess? He had not seen the wizard since the meeting in the morning. Slightly miffed, he wondered to where he had disappeared. There was certainly not the time to search all of the city!

Thankfully, all he needed to do was ask the gate guards to obtain the information he needed. Gandalf had journeyed into the field hours before. He asked the soldiers if the wizard had explained his actions, but they could not answer, as puzzled by his departure as he. Faramir made for the stables, had his chestnut mare saddled once more, and rode outside the city.

The heat was unbearable. In the few minutes that had elapsed while he was inside, the temperature had risen. Faramir grimaced, feeling his surcoat stick to his body as his horse galloped through the field. The sun was high overhead, baking the land with an almost vengeful intensity. How could the men fight in such conditions?

Faramir traveled the fields of golden grains, his eyes scanning his surroundings quickly. Nothing but grass. In the distance he could see the colorful banners of Mirkwood hang limply in the haze. The light twinkled upon the armor, and in the waves of heat the winks and flashes blended into a glowing mass of tiny soldiers. This great field would be full of warriors in a matter of hours. Men and Elves, united in their last cause. It seemed almost a reenactment of sorts, a strange repeat of that fateful fight upon the slopes of Mount Doom so many years ago. Would this field be later covered in bodies, in blood? He winced and tried not to think about it.

He reined in his mount, bringing her to stop, and glanced around. There was a wink of white in the tall grasses ahead. He turned the horse in that direction. As he approached, he was able to confirm his suspicion. Gandalf stood, his eyes trained upon the east, his body tense. Faramir stiffly dismounted and grabbed the reins, pulling his horse forward. "Gandalf, sir," he gasped. Sweat ran into his eyes and he angrily wiped it away. The wizard did not turn to greet him. Confused, he stepped closer. "Sir!"

Silence. It was then Faramir realized the ancient being was muttering very softly to himself. The words were so quiet and intense that the young man's irritation faded. His gooseflesh prickled as he came to stand behind Gandalf. He followed the wizard's gaze and analyzed the eastern horizon, but there was nothing that seemed out of the ordinary. Breathless, he asked, "What is it?"

Gandalf did not turn to him but ceased his mumbling. "Something black this way comes," he declared softly. Faramir stiffened, queasy worry rolling over him. He waited anxiously for the other to continue. Gandalf finally pivoted slowly and carefully. His eyes were narrowed. A thin sheen of sweat made his face glow powerfully. "The air reeks of it, and it has for hours."

Faramir shook his head. "I do not understand, sir."

"Stand still. Breathe. Feel." The wizard closed his eyes briefly. "This heat… it is unnatural."

The young man watched numbly, feeling utterly at a loss to comprehend what was happening. Gandalf's behavior was unusual to say the least, and Faramir found it completely upsetting. The wizard then gripped his staff tightly. "He is here."

"Who, my Lord?"

"Saruman the Wise."

Saruman! Faramir felt his stomach clench painfully. He could not find it within himself to accept this terrible truth. The dark wizard had come here? Ai, horrible tidings! The young lord felt overwhelmed. They could not contend with a deranged and powerful Istar as well!

He abruptly felt as though hidden eyes were upon him. His flesh crawled in tense fear. The reason for his seeking Gandalf fled his worried mind. He watched the other, hoping somewhat childishly that the benevolent creature might somehow make this newest dilemma disappear. But the wizard only stood, his form tall and taut. "Yes, he has finally come. I have been waiting. You best leave, young man!"

But Faramir did not move. He found himself unwilling to leave Gandalf alone to face this unprecedented evil, even though he doubted he would be any aid to the wizard. A vortex of hot winds suddenly overcame them, startling Faramir as it whipped his hair and clothes about. He turned around as the gales spooked his horse, and the mare reared, ripping the reins from his sweaty hands. She ran then, bolting across the field.

Faramir turned again and felt his jaw drop open. There, where once only grass and field appeared, stood a tall, menacing figure draped in robes of the purest white. He grasped a dark rod topped by four points. His aged face was dark, betraying his twisted logic, and pulled into a tight, angry scowl. He seemed a frail thing, but there was something malevolent and potent about him. He had seen the wizard but once before, when the Istar had come to his father's court. Corruption clung to him now. He was once the most powerful of all Istari, and Faramir could easily believe it.

The young lord stood transfixed. The air crackled with intangible power. "So," Gandalf spoke lowly, quietly, as if he was speaking to an old friend, "you have come."

"As have you," answered Saruman. His spotted, long face was expressionless, frightening in its calm. Not the slightest breeze ruffled robe or white hair. He was the picture of serenity. "And so the fate of men has become intimately entwined with our own will. A peculiar thing, really, that we the most ancient and wise might determine the destiny of those whose life is but a wink of a star."

"May it be," Gandalf began, "that man should never sink so low that he cannot determine his own path in his existence." His tone held anger.

"Bah!" Saruman roared. "Men are weak. They are frail. They betray one another in hopes of satiating their own hunger for power. It is not at all surprising that a man brought upon Middle Earth the ruin that threatens. Equally so it is not surprising that an Elf sacrificed himself to prevent it."

A man. Faramir did not want to consider the possibility of what Saruman had meant with those words. "The corruption of the One Ring has always been the bane of man." Man had brought this upon himself. Boromir had been corrupted and created the downfall of the Fellowship of the Ring; that much was obvious. But had his corruption sealed the fate of Middle Earth?

"And a man will destroy that threat," Gandalf countered, gripping his staff tightly.

"You speak of Isildur's heir? Truly you have lost your wits, Gandalf the Grey! Need I remind you that the same lust, the same greed that cursed man to this fate runs in his blood?"

"You need not," spoke the benevolent wizard. He stood tall and proud. Clearly Saruman did not faze him, though Faramir felt certain any other would crumble under that piercing glare. "But your own reasoning is flawed, Saruman, flawed by your greed and lust. The ties that bind brothers to one another are strong indeed, perhaps more resilient than any other power in Middle Earth. Fellowship is but the one thing you cannot predict or destroy." Gandalf narrowed his eyes. "Aragorn will not falter."

Silence. Saruman was stiff with cool anger, as though hinting at the dangers of testing his restraint. Gandalf did not waver. The two wizards, both of which claimed to be the leader of their Order, warred with wills and stares. Faramir knew he was of no station to intercede or even be noticed, and he watched with awe, fear, and uncertainty. Maybe he should flee, as Gandalf had instructed him. He damned his curiosity!

"Why have you come, Saruman?" Gandalf finally questioned icily. "Surely your own quest for the Ring should take you to Mordor, not Gondor. What drew you here?"

Irritation burned in the ancient creature's black eyes. "Is it not obvious? The Ring is beyond the reach of all. The Halflings approach Mount Doom, and I am without any means of preventing its destruction. The son of Denethor, wretched as he was, saw to that. Sauron alone can stop them."

Faramir did not know whether to be heartened or discouraged by such news. The stupendous situation left him numb. Gandalf did not speak, as if he had anticipated the turn of events, watching Saruman intently. "The folly of a plan ruined! Damn the Elf!" the corrupted wizard roared, his gaze now sour with fury. "The man was weak. It would have been a simple act, an effortless betrayal, and I might have taken the Ring from him. I might have finally held it! But the cursed Elf stole my chance, ripped it from my very fingers…" Saruman's knotted and knobbed hands clenched only air, shaking in rage. A cruel smile appeared upon his thin lips. "He suffered for his transgressions!"

Gandalf said, "You are a fool, Saruman. Even the very wise cannot see all ends, and you underestimated much. And now you are cut from your treasure, without means to see it or track it." Gandalf's brow furrowed in thought. "Defeated, you have come to Minas Tirith. Why?"

Saruman laughed, clearly amused by Gandalf's ignorance. Faramir felt his anger mount. "Do you not see? The tide of this war may be turning, but the outcome shall be the same! Sauron will likely reclaim his Ring and destroy us all. If by some remote chance your silly Hobbit succeeds in his quest, then men will triumph! Men! Either case is most undesirable." A mad glint had crawled into Saruman's gaze. "I came to again extend an offer of truce. Whether or not the Dark Lord reclaims his silly trinket is beyond our control. We must salvage some of this situation!"

Gandalf's old eyes narrowed, bringing wrinkles to his tanned face. "A truce? What sort of madness is this?"

"It is not madness at all," Saruman roared, "but sanity in a bleak and desperate moment! We must strike at men now, when they are weak! We must uproot your lost king and take control of these forces! When Sauron attacks, we will have means to defend ourselves!"

Faramir stiffened. Such a horrible idea! To use the nation of Gondor as a meat shield against Sauron's onslaught? Rage tipped his world, and he saw red. "You traitor," he hissed. His sword came clean from his sheath and he raised it against the demented wizard. "You will not destroy all my father gave his life to protect!"

But Saruman ignored him. "It is too late to do anything else. Do you understand? Gandalf, the Dark Lord will obliterate us should this battle be lost!"

Gandalf huffed. "Obliterate you, you mean. I see more than you think, Saruman. You betrayed Sauron. The Ring took your mind and sanity, as it has done so many others. The lust for its power, the greed for its might, twisted you from a benign creature of logic and lore to a demon of wrath and violence. You intended to take the One Ring for yourself when the moment arose. And now that it is beyond your grasp, you seek some way to protect yourself from the punishment you know is coming. This I cannot forgive." Gandalf shook his head sourly. "The fate you have chosen is yours alone. Follow it to your grave."

A crackle of sudden lightning. The sky had grown dark and malignant. "You pathetic fool! You don the colors that belong to me! You usurper! Gandalf the Grey, you will aid me in this or I will kill you!"

Gandalf offered a grave little grin as he gripped hard his wizard's staff. "Do try."

The air exploded, and Faramir was flung back. Soundless lightning flashed violently, tearing at the black clouds overhead. Endlessly Faramir seemed to soar in this breathless void. Then he struck hard ground, the wind rushing from his body. He lay there, stunned and dazed, listening and seeing the most stupendous of all events before him. Two of the most powerful wizards, one white with the goodness of Middle Earth, one blacker than night and all of its evil, stood before him in a battle of raw power. Gandalf ripped up his staff with a yell, and an invisible fist seemed to ram itself in to Saruman's jaw, sending the old wizard reeling back. Yet he quickly righted himself and swung his own rod around mightily. Gandalf cried as another force battered him with such power as to knock him to the ground and send him skidding some twenty feet back in the grass. He was a whirl of white as he flew and landed roughly. Saruman smiled wickedly.

Lightning danced all around them, sundering the ground with strikes that left Faramir deafened and terrified. His limp fingers barely held tight to the Blade of Gondor so clammy and slick with sweat. The stench of ionized air and burning grass filled the air, the bolts viciously and violently crashing to the plains with the fury of a thousand thunderstorms. Soon a mist filled the air, and vaguely Faramir realized it to be smoke. The field was ablaze.

Through the haze rose Gandalf, blood crowning his left brow, his face set in grim determination. Light glowed around him, intense with purity and power. This he flung at Saruman. There was an explosion and a booming roar. Faramir raised his hand to protect his eyes as wind shoved against him, ripping the grasses from their root in the soil, blowing the flames from existence. In the moments that followed he heard grunting and whispered words in a language he could not understand. Someone fell and rose. A cry and a crash of lightning. The flash was so bright the young lord could not see. Blinded, he could but hold still and pray he survived the onslaught of the elements as the minutes seemed to drag on. Two master wizards, two powerful Istari, warring with all the weapons nature could offer… Such an incredible event was indescribable!

When the smoke and mist cleared, Faramir gaped. They stood much that same as they had before the battle, perhaps a bit bloodied and winded. There was no clear victor, and Faramir watched perplexed as Saruman's thin lips compressed in a frustrated smile. "You have grown powerful." It was a simple statement, but hidden in the words was contempt and fury.

"As well I should," remarked Gandalf, straightening from a bent form. Faramir could see that he was tiring. "I knew this day would come. This fight started so many days ago, yet all that remains unfinished will end today." His face grew vehement and his tone tight. "I will not let you destroy the world of men."

"Pitiful creature!" hissed Saruman. In a flash they were fighting again, and Faramir fought to trace their movements. He was so bedazzled that he knew not what to do, watching as Gandalf fell and then rose, as Saruman toppled only to stand again. Was it his place to help? Was it his battle to fight? He did not know, and if not for the rage beating in his heart, he would not wonder. But there was something about what Saruman had said. The old wizard had intended to use Boromir, to manipulate Boromir's corruption. Faramir did not know what had cracked his brother's valor, but he knew Boromir well enough to assume that whatever drove him to commit such a heinous crime as to steal the One Ring was a valiant ambition. He wanted to protect us. He wanted to defeat Mordor with the Ring. I know it! What gave Saruman the right to sully such a noble idea? To use men like ants… Faramir's fingers felt again his sword. Gondor needed no protection. Gondor was mighty and proud. He could not stand and let Gandalf do what was by all means his own task. He must defend his people. This was his fight.

Yet when the moment of action finally came, when he was able to make sense of his feelings and slice through his paralyzing fear and loss, he found he could not see. He could not breathe. The smoke blinded and choked him, his eyes stinging and his lungs burning. Still, he could hear. "Strong, yes, but foolhardy as ever, Gandalf."Saruman. I shall kill him! He followed the voice and sprinted through the mist. "Did you think you could contend with me? I am far above you in wisdom and power!" A grunted response that Faramir could not hear as he pushed through the haze. There was white ahead. He ran. "And now you will die. I will kill you, as I should have all those days ago atop Orthanc!"

The murderous rage boiled over, jolting him in a taut frenzy, and he lowered his blade. He charged. The few short steps seemed to last an eternity. This strange and timeless infinity was filled with simple things. The sound of his boots thudding against the ground. His rushed breathing. His heart beat. His mother's laugh. His father's watchful eyes. Boromir's smile.

"For Gondor!"

His sword met its mark. He felt it slide through something soft and elation claimed him, bringing a giddy smile to his face. His limbs became rubber. Had he just killed Saruman the Wise?

"Fool."

A hand ripped around and grabbed his throat. Faramir jerked in surprise, but it was too late to free himself. His sword dropped from numb fingers as Saruman's long, white nails tightened about his fragile neck. He coughed, gasping for air as his body screamed a painful protest. Saruman only smiled and lifted him with unreasonable strength. Faramir shook his head weakly, his fingers coming to pry the crushing grip from his neck. Red splotches flitted across his vision. They did not obscure the look of sheer pleasure in Saruman's demented stare. "I will destroy you, weakling. Destroy you as I should have your brother!"

There was no air. Pain flashed all over his body as he struggled and kicked feebly. He could not feel. He could not see. Blackness was devouring everything. He could not hear. There was only a dull roar of agony and blood mixed with the cruelty of the Istar's laugh. He could not breathe. There was no air. Breathe!

Faramir would have never saved himself. Yet as fate sometimes does, there came a twist, a perversion of the strangest kind. For as the forces that be would have it the destiny of Saruman was not for the free peoples of Middle Earth to decide. An unusual quirk, but not completely ironic in retrospection. A traitor always stands alone. There are no allies in greed.

There came a shrill howl, so piercing and painful that Faramir thought he was imagining it when he slipped away. As his teary eyes closed, he saw Saruman gasp and falter. The crushing grip about his throat was gone, and he was falling. He hit the ground hard. The daze continued for a moment before he was able to suck in a breath. Ai, air, sweet and glorious! He breathed, filling his deprived and battered body, great shuddering sobs shaking him. It was another minute after that before any sense came to him. He could not believe their grotesque fortune when it did.

The smoke had dissipated. Ahead, tearing up the field, were nine riders clad in black. Their massive steeds thundered upon the plains, racing towards them at immeasurable speeds. The wind tore at their black cloaks, pulling back the cloth to reveal steel armor that was dark and foreboding. Faramir blinked and shook his head in terror and wonder. He felt queasy and confused. The servants of Sauron. Nazgûl.

They came as messengers of death. There was a loud ring as they slowed to a stop, their swords coming free from their sheaths and held aloft. Around them they walked, and Faramir tried to calm his racing heart. He felt disjointed and lost. It was a queer thing, but he had just come so close to his demise that the threat of these black riders barely frightened him. His gooseflesh prickled at the unreal nightmare, and he closed his eyes.

"Stand, Faramir, but be slow and careful." He turned then quickly, startled by the voice. Gandalf was behind him. The old creature was dirty and bloodied, but alive and more or less well. His face was one of seriousness and urgency. The look in those ancient eyes left no room for question, and though the young lord did not understand, he simply did as asked, grabbing the fallen Blade of Gondor.

In the sunlight, it became clear. The Nazgûl squealed in delight and anticipation, circling Saruman as predators do prey, threatening and ominous. Saruman stood stiffly, silently. His head was bowed, his immaculate hair bloody and tangled. His staff was gone. Something red glinted. Faramir could not believe it. Blood poured down Saruman's robes from his midriff. It seemed impossible, but it was undeniable. He had stabbed the great wizard. And that wound would likely be enough to seal Saruman's defeat at the hands of the nine.

The great being stood, almost sad in this moment. Pitiful in his downfall. Faramir might have felt sympathy or sorrow if not for all Saruman had done to destroy Middle Earth. The wizard lowered his head and closed his eyes. Eyes that had seen and known so much. There was nothing left to do, Faramir supposed, other than accept his fate.

"Walk now," Gandalf instructed softly, grabbing his arm. One of the Nazgûl sat mounted, watching them with an unnerving gaze. Faramir felt he might shrivel in its dark intensity. "Steady and do not look back."

And so they did. The Nazgûl howled in their attack, but Faramir only grimaced and shuddered, never glancing over his shoulder. His curiosity was not enough to bolster his resolve. Seconds dragged to minutes. They made quite some distance before there was nothing but the sound of the breeze, peaceful and soft. It felt good against Faramir's abused skin. The weight of all that abruptly happened fell upon him, and he staggered, falling to the ground. There he knelt, dizzy and nauseous, the sun warm upon his head. Breathing. He felt overwhelming relief at being alive.

Some time passed before he was steady enough again to face the world. He looked up and found Gandalf standing patiently beside him. The wizard appeared disheveled but pensive. "They will kill him," Faramir stated, turning his blurry gaze back to the ground. Ants poked through the soil below his knees.

"Yes," answered the old wizard. He sighed heavily. "His madness was his undoing. It was an insanity of the worst kind. Cold. Calculating. Sadistic. That kind of disease is borne from nothing but lust and greed. Sauron the Deceiver breeds such a madness and nurtures it until only the strongest can deny it."

It made sad sense. Saruman was but one in a long list of those too weak to turn away from the promise of power. Boromir was only another… he shuddered. The sword felt heavy then. He was glad his brother's blade had been the one to deliver a crippling blow to Saruman. It seemed fitting somehow, though Faramir was not sure why.

He stood then, absolved. Rest now, Boromir. Men shall not be ants for the greater creatures to use as they please. I have seen to it! The heat had broken. He suddenly grew cold with other concerns. "Will the Ringwraiths ride to Minas Tirith?"

Gandalf's eyes were dark in concern. "Most likely, but I believe their attack will come later. This task was a separate matter. They will return for Gondor, and with them all the black forces of Mordor will charge." There came an urgent shine in his eyes. Suddenly he was off in a jog. Taken aback, Faramir had to leap to catch up. "We must mobilize the men!"

"I have seen to it," the young man gasped, jogging. A task he had previously shunned and forgotten came rushing back to him with a spurt of panic, and his stomach knotted then dropped. "We must hurry back! I was sent to find you by Lord Aragorn! He needed your help, for a dire situation has come to him!"

Gandalf glanced back at him, his expression grave. "Then let us make haste. The hour is far later than I realized!"

With that, the conversation died in a rush of breath as they ran back to the White City. The field was left scarred with blood and ash, the markings of the first in many battles to come. The smoke drifted across the plain like an army of ghosts. The wind chased it, brushing it aside, wiping it from existence.

Perhaps the field would later be covered in dead. But it would not be a loss in vain, Faramir realized. The sun was shining, and the day was bright. He had faith in Aragorn. He had faith in himself. In the end, Gondor would triumph.

He was sure of it.

Aragorn wiped the sweat from his face. The room seemed so bright and bleary, and he was lightheaded. A cool breeze had recently come to ward away the unbearable heat, but it was slow to touch the healer's ward even with the open windows, and the interior remained stifling. The ranger felt he could hardly breathe.

A half an hour had passed with torturous lethargy. The healers and Arwen had worked quickly to save Legolas, but his dear friend remained unconscious and deathly weak. The wound to his chest, while serious, would not have posed a fatal threat to an Elf. But there was something worse, something vile and horrible that worried Aragorn beyond any sense of calm. Legolas was sick with terrible disease that the ranger had never before seen. He had no idea how to treat it. From Arwen's flustered frenzy, it was clear that she was as helpless as he to contend with this dangerous mystery. Aragorn had hoped desperately that Gandalf might have been able to help, that the great, old wizard might have known something about this ailment. Faramir had been gone for quite some time. What could have detained them? The ranger felt the room spin as he rubbed his face with his hands. His fingers, he found, were shaking. He did not have the capacity to worry about Faramir. His mind was simply too muddled. All that concerned him was Legolas, and his fallen friend needed the wisdom of their Istar companion.

Where was Gandalf?

He watched in a tense exhaustion as Arwen rinsed her hands in a washing bowl. She looked drained and her face was pale. Sweat glistened at her temples. Tiredly she met his gaze. Her dark, beautiful eyes glimmered in teary helplessness. It tore at him to see her so distraught. He wished for nothing more than to draw her into his embrace and whisper to her that all would be well. However, he was sure he did not have the strength to lie. Something more was troubling Arwen, something she had not told him. He was sure it was related to whatever Legolas had said, but she had refused to divulge the information, and that left Aragorn frustrated and useless.

The healer sighed as he finished wrapping Legolas' bruised chest in protective linens. They had bathed the wound carefully and applied salves containing medicines to aid in healing and prevent infection. Also, they had forced the archer during a brief moment of lucidity to sip a drink that would ease him into sleep and diminish the pain. Aragorn knew it was all for naught. Nothing they could do would uproot the source of Legolas' disease.

Arwen closed her eyes. In the sunlight she seemed a pale angel, weary and saddened by the toils of mortal life. "What will you do, my love?" she asked quietly, tentatively.

Aragorn breathed slowly, trying to clear his head. A dull agony pulsed all over him, and he acutely felt every bruise and bump he had suffered in the fight. He stood and for a moment his knees creaked and he thought he might topple. "I will go," he said. "I will find Gandalf."

Arwen shook her head. "Nay, Estel," she began, "I doubt there is time. This place…" She looked around, her eyes blue and veiled in urgency. "It will do him no good. Something horrible has been done to him. He needs the woods. He needs Mirkwood and Rivendell. He must go home." She stepped forward and grabbed his hands. Her skin was softer than silk. "Mithrandir mayhap could aid him, but I believe even he would say the same. What ails Legolas is beyond our ability to heal. You know as well as I. It is an affliction of his heart and soul." Her tone grew hushed and frightened. "I do not know if the black magic levied upon him is permanent or even real, but it is serious enough to crush his will. He will die if we cannot help him!" Aragorn knew where her argument was headed, and he did not like the idea at all. He opened his mouth to counter, but she shook her head and went on. "We must take him to Rivendell. My father will know what to do!"

"Excuse me, my Lady," one of the soldiers, a captain by the look of it, said, "but we have no riders to spare, and flight is too dangerous. The path is unknown and treacherous, and no man from Gondor can navigate it with any speed."

"There is no need," Arwen said. Her voice was calm and resolute. "I will take him."

Aragorn flushed with anger, his suspicions confirmed. He grabbed Arwen's shoulders and gently pulled her closer. In his eyes was desperation and in his words was a plea. "It is too dangerous," he argued.

"Not any more so than remaining here," she retorted stubbornly.

"Another can surely do this!"

"No one else will know how to treat his wounds. Few men can aid Elves as such."

"I will not send you unprotected."

"Glorfindel would ride with me, should I ask."

"Arwen, please…" he whispered in Elvish, feeling his world shift and his heart ache. "The journey is perilous. The world is too dangerous, and you are…" The words died. He could not speak his fear. He did not wish to insult her or imply that he doubted her. Instead he lowered his eyes in shame and stumbled on in another direction. Guilt permeated every bit of him. "I brought upon him this disaster. I left him when he needed me and broke a solemn vow. I should go-"

"No, you are needed here. You are king; you cannot leave. And this was no more your fault than mine." The breeze brushed through the room, and he inhaled her sweet scent. "I came to Minas Tirith to help you," she said softly. Aragorn had always thought Arwen's voice melodic, but something about Elvish brought to life notes and tones that filled his heart with joy. When she spoke it, she sang. "I came because I thought Legolas was dead, and I knew you would need my strength. And now that our dear friend lingers… I must do this. I must help him. I lost Legolas once. I will not lose him again."

Aragorn sighed gently and nodded. She was right. There was no other way. To the soldier, he said, "Send word to Lord Glorfindel's quarters that he is needed at the stables." The man disappeared down the hall. "We need a litter. Ready supplies."

A moment later they were moving. The healer and Aragorn had lifted Legolas' limp form to the gurney the men had procured and each grabbed an end. There was a flurry of motion and spoken words. Arwen fled to her room to change into a riding outfit. The chaos of the healers' quarters faded as they moved through the winding corridors of Minas Tirith, bearing their injured comrade. The maids rushed to collect the requested items, and all was carried to the stables.

Glorfindel was waiting patiently. He eyed their approach, a tinge of annoyance perhaps in his eyes. This faded quickly as he saw Legolas. The Elf Lord's face broke in shock and confusion. His moment of shock was quick to come and quick to leave, and a breath later he was as stoic as ever. "I see now why you summoned me," he stated.

"Saddle Hasufel," the ranger ordered one of the boys. The lad rushed off to obey, staring at Aragorn over his shoulder in awe. Then the king turned to the Elf. "It pains me to ask this of you," he began, too frantic and nervous to think of etiquette or fear, "but I must. The Prince of Mirkwood needs the care of Lord Elrond."

Arwen appeared then, her flowing gown replaced with simple clothes designed for comfort when traveling. Her abundant hair she secured at her neck. Her face was flushed and her eyes glowed. Her gaze darted to Aragorn and Glorfindel. "We must hurry," she declared. "I know it seems a terribly rude thing to ask, my Lord, but I beg you to ride with me home to Rivendell."

"It is not such a rude thing, for there is little at times like these one can control." The tall, powerful Elf pivoted then and spoke to a stable hand, requesting that his mount be readied. The boys watched Glorfindel with such paralyzing disbelief that they did not move, their mouths limply open. Instead of snapping at them to hurry, the kind lord merely grinned. They returned with wide smiles and ran off. Had Aragorn not been so riled, he might have though the moment heartening.

Another boy brought over Hasufel. The horse seemed anxious, pawing at the hay covered ground. The ranger watched numbly as the servants secured supplies to the saddle. Arwen spoke softly to the beast, and it cooed and neighed in response to her gentle words and soothing touch. Then she mounted the horse.

The others tugged Glorfindel's great white mount Asfaloth closer. As the Elf Lord readied himself, Aragorn lifted Legolas carefully. They wrapped the sleeping, shaking body in quilts and cloaks. He caught sight of his friend's brutalized face and felt tears burn his eyes. His heart pounded in a strained agony. Ai, Legolas! If I could only do something to help you… If I could only erase this all!

They settled Legolas into Arwen's embrace. She held him tight, his blond hair falling over her arms, his long legs dangling. Aragorn stood at Hasufel's side. This was the eerily same, he realized. But a few months ago the very same thing had happened. He had given to his love a charge that he had failed to protect. Arwen had always been his strength. She would succeed where he had failed with Legolas, as she had so many days prior with Frodo.

He choked on his words. He could not think of what to say. "Ride hard," he whispered.

"And do not look back," she finished. She offered a weak smile. "I remember."

He leaned up, and she down. Their lips met with warm tears and soft love.

When they parted, Aragorn felt cold. He looked then to Legolas, and grasped the other's chilled, weak fingers. That hand, so often powerful in the draw of an arrow or knife, did not even return the grip. He wished so terribly that he might give some of his life to his dying friend!

Arwen's slender fingers fell over his, and together they held tight to Legolas' hand. "Do not worry," she assured him. "I will let no more harm come to him. I love him far too much to see him hurt."

The words were a small consolation, but Aragorn forced himself to believe. He forced himself to have faith that Arwen and Glorfindel would reach Rivendell unscathed, that Lord Elrond would be able to help Legolas, that they would win this horrible fight looming before him. Have faith! "I cannot lose you both," he declared, his tone weak with fear and grief.

"You will not."

"I love you."

"I know."

Then with a lingering caress of her hand upon his, she pulled tight the reins. She whispered something to Hasufel that Aragorn could not hear. The horse jumped into a gallop. Glorfindel offered him a curt, reassuring nod before following. The sound of thundering horse feet echoed in the courtyard. They were gone in a blink.

A wind tore its way through the stables. It smelled of smoke and grass. Aragorn grew chilled and he shuddered. He longed then for the heat to return, if only to warm his heart.


	26. The Promised Moment

Quiet. Peace. The cool gale swept across the field, and in its arms blew the banners of justice and good. Flags rose to bright sky, spreading color and pride. Atop this hill, there was no sound but the soft whisper of the breeze and the chirping of crickets, and it was a soothing song in which he let himself go. He was sure there was a great cacophony on the field of men chatting, of armor clanking, of orders and replies and prayers. Yet he was glad for the quiet. He was glad for this tenuous separation, this one moment perhaps where he might have serenity. Where there was no loud noise, no pressure, no nation to protect and defend. Just a moment with the rainbow of color, the splendor of banners flown high on a midday wind.

The Last Alliance seemed so very strong as the soldiers took the field, the standards of Mirkwood and Gondor meshed in their common defense. To Aragorn's eyes, it was but a mess of Elf and man, and the troops were only winks of glinting armor as they marched to the northern border. It was a wide force, indeed. By his rough estimate, it seemed more than ten thousand strong. He hoped it would be enough.

Only a few minutes had passed since Arwen had departed Gondor. It seemed the whole of Aragorn's world had radically changed. He idly mused now that such a thought was silly; he had for months been separated from his love. Having her back for even those few hours had smashed down the barricades he had built against her intoxicating presence, and he missed her terribly. His emotions were a storm that made little sense, but it was a black maelstrom of despair and fear. He could not believe that he had simply let her leave on such a dangerous journey! He cursed himself for his stupidity. It was not the case that he did not trust her, or that he thought her a weakling. But she was not as strong as others of her kind, and that frailty was borne from her devotion to him. A horrible guilt, if any! And if she should fall now…

 _No! Do not think it!_ He diverted his thoughts, but there was little else to which he might attend other than troubles. From his mind he could not expunge the sight of his dearest friend's battered body. The fight on the very field over which he now watched seemed an unreal nightmare centuries past. But it had been horribly and undeniably true, and Legolas was dying. He had tried to have hope in weeks past that Legolas lived, that Saruman had left him unscathed. Such a dream was idealistic, but hope was wasted on pessimists. It was clear that Legolas had not been unsoiled by the dark forces. It enraged Aragorn that he could not tell the extent of the damage done his friend. That anger, though, paled in comparison to the fury he felt at his own helplessness. Legolas had been taken captive at Amon Hen, and he had done nothing. Legolas had been marched to Isengard and tortured, and he had done nothing. Legolas had been whisked away from him, dragged to a darkness more violent and dangerous than any should ever have to face.  _And I did nothing!_ Aragorn clenched a fist. Even during that fight… It has been his life at stake, yet Legolas had been wounded, and he had stood by uselessly. Frustrated tears blurred that pristine scene of the field, marring the pretty colors and the powerful armies.

He was a fool, a horrible, weak fool. He had murdered an Elf prince. He had not had the time to wash the blood from his hands after caring for Legolas, and they were stained a disgusting red. The blood of the House of Thranduil. Perhaps Astaldogald had been right to blame. Perhaps he had been right to hate.

 _They are gone now. They are gone and I can do nothing to help them._ The two people he cared most for in his life lingered in peril, and he was trapped by this burdensome birthright. He thought he might scream his aggravation simply to break a peaceful silence that had suddenly become unbearable. Its emptiness was far too symbolic.

But he could not. Arwen was wise beyond him. He was king, and as much as those duties seemed revolting and inappropriate to him in that moment, he could not shun them any more than he could shun his blood. Too much depended on his strength as a ruler. He could not falter, no matter how much it pained him.

So now he stood, ready to restore the world of men, ready to defend Middle Earth against the Dark Lord. Ready to amend a mistake made an age prior. It seemed so unfair.

Brodderband huffed as he trudged up the hill. The clanking of his armor and heavy breathing distracted Aragorn, filling the quiet and breaking the ranger from his reverie. The older man's face was reddened by the time he reached his king. "My Lord," he gasped breathlessly as he pulled in a crisp salute. "All is well. We shall be in position momentarily."

Aragorn nodded. After Arwen had departed, he had immediately sought out Brodderband. His legs had really directed him of their own accord, his mind numb with grief and his body exhausted and pained from the fight. He had found the old soldier in the barracks, ushering the last of the troops and supplies to the main army. Aragorn had feared that Faramir had for reasons he could not fathom never relayed to Brodderband his orders, and he was relieved to find his friend had done as he had asked. He tried not to worry about what had become of Faramir after his meeting with the general, as Brodderband himself had little information about his whereabouts.

What had happened thence was but a blur to the hurting Aragorn. Brodderband insisted that he don some plate for his own protection, and he had quickly been fitted for the lightest mail possible. He generally disliked armor, finding it restrictive in fighting and heavy in traveling, both of which skills the ranger valued greatly. Still, he had not argued, numb perhaps from the flurry of emotions pounding in his head, tired from feeling and thinking and hurting. After he had ridden to the field to oversee the army take its position, but his attention had been elsewhere. The peaceful moment come to him had for the longest time been an empty rest. Until his despair and anger brought to him guilt and thought, he had lingered in a cool breeze. How he wished to return!

He did not know which matter was most worthy of his concern. The latest scout reports indicated that they had far less time than they had anticipated. Some soldiers reported a fire on the field, others a storm that was strangely and intensely localized. He had never found Gandalf, and Faramir was missing. His love was lost to him. Legolas was fading from life. Was there any spot of hope in this dark night of eminent peril?

"Sir," Aragorn said suddenly, narrowing his eyes blankly upon the field. Brodderband was silent, waiting patiently for his liege to continue. "Do you think we stand a chance as thus?"

The other did not answer, as if judging his words carefully. The wind spoke in their stead. Then Brodderband folded his arms across his chest, his chain mail clinking with the motion, and breathed softly. "It would be wrong of me to lie, so I must speak plainly. I believe we face a dire situation, and even with the aid of the Elves, we are likely outnumbered. That wall is old and weakened. It will topple given enough strain. I have fought against the Orcs of Mordor before. They do not easily give up their fight. They smell blood, the animals, and they hunt until they have their prize." Aragorn cringed inwardly. "No, sir. I do not think that any man faced with disaster can honestly say that he believes he has a chance. I do not think any man that calls himself true and valorous can deny doubt or fear. Yet, my Lord, there is this as well, and if I neglected to say it I would be as much a liar." The king turned to face his general. The old man's kind face was taut with seriousness, and his gruff tone held firm resolution. "Odds mean little to a courageous man who knows he cannot fail."

For a moment, Aragorn felt he could believe in that. The man's words were heartening and encouraging, a gentle exchange held in trust between a king and his general. He tried to smile his thanks, but the pain was simply too much, and he only nodded. Brodderband excused himself then, taking leave to join his troops upon the field.

From across the field was the thunder of horse hooves. Aragorn turned towards the sound. A train of five or so horses screamed across the plain, trampling the grasses with ferocious speed. From the saddles waved the banners of the royal family of Mirkwood. The group approached and slowed their gallop.

Aragorn stiffened. It was only folly to have not expected this encounter. Still, he felt his stomach clench in anxiety and his heart thunder in fear. He could think of nothing to say as Vardaithil dismounted his great black stallion. The Elf prince's face was dark and malignant. His narrowed eyes swam in anger and sorrow. Behind him Aratadarion gracefully slid from his own horse. His own gaze was lowered, though not in fear or shame, but in melancholy. The breeze pulled at his dark hair.

Aragorn had not the time to feel guilt or pain, for the Elf's older brother had come to stop before him. "Elessar," he said coldly.

His mind was blank, so much so that only the business of the day came to him. He was glad at least for that chilly apathy. "My Lord," he answered, his tone void of emotion.

Vardaithil did not speak immediately, but his tense eyes were gauging him, Aragorn knew. He had before seen the analytical stare of opponents, judging strengths and weaknesses, supposing truths and lies. Determining worth as an enemy or ally. "My forces stand ready," the Elf prince finally spoke. Aragorn stared at him in turn. Surely he knew of Astaldogald's death! Yet this nonchalance was not something he expected. He had known Vardaithil was a calm Elf, a stately, pristine prince to whom appearance mattered much. Legolas was much the same. Yet to calm a rage directed at a brother's murderer?  _And that two-fold, for he undoubtedly blames me for Legolas' fall as well!_ The Elf grew irritated at his silence, and looked to the field. "The latest reports from my scouts indicate that Sauron's forces are very close."

The ranger brushed aside his thoughts and concentrated on the matter at hand. "Yes," he declared, "a few hours if that."

"Earlier, I suspect. Orcs do not tire."

Aragorn decided not to press the matter, too intimidated by Vardaithil to question him momentarily. Instead he nodded, folding his arms across his chest. He followed the Elf prince's gaze, staring into the mesh of color again. For a long time no one spoke, as if each was waiting for the other to break the awkward silence. Somehow Aragorn knew the duty fell to him. Whatever anger or frustrated he had felt before seemed now improper and rude. What right did he have to think lowly of Vardaithil? Given all that had happened, the ranger could hardly expect the lord to trust him, much less respect him.  _I killed his brother. I killed Astaldogald._ There was no rationale in that moment, no reason that was true or absolving. No excuse.  _I killed him!_

The wind brushed by them, blowing away his words as he spoke. "I… I must apologize for-"

"Stop." Vardaithil did not turn to look at him. His tone was seething venom, causing Aragorn's flesh to crawl. "I wish not to hear your condolences. They mean nothing."

He bristled. The anger was quick to return. He felt so emotionally worn and battered that he simply could not control it. The words fled his mouth of their own accord. "Your hatred of me may be strong, son of Thranduil, and perhaps warranted." He turned a cold glare upon the Elf. "But you are quick to judge without understanding all sides."

Vardaithil actually laughed. It was short sound of incredulity, of pain and anger. "And what would you wish of me, son of Arathorn? That I hear out your explanation? That I accept your shallow commiseration? That I absolve you?" The Elf prince dropped his voice to a low, harsh murmur. "It will not happen! My brother is  _dead_. He has died for your fool cause." Confusion burst inside Aragorn. What did Vardaithil mean? Yet he had not the time to question, for the Elf warrior charged on in his pained accusations. "Another of the House of Thranduil falls so that you may amend a crime cast by your ancestor so many years ago. Another Elf is lost so that man may make right what he has wronged! My brother fell in  _your_  battle! You cannot make that right!"

Aragorn was astounded. This was obviously a great misunderstanding. "It was not my battle," he countered, his expression puzzled. "You know not who you defend! Astaldogald was not himself!"

"You did  _not_  know him. You knew nothing of his valor! Of his strength! He fell to protect your people! Never claim that you knew him!"

 _I knew he was about to kill Legolas! I knew it!_ But he did not say this, for he felt the gaze of another upon him. Aratadarion stood silently and stiffly behind his older brother. His eyes were firm and restraining, asking him to keep silent. Aragorn slowly began to understand. It seemed impossible and grotesquely wrong, but there was no other conclusion. Aratadarion had lied to his brother about Astaldogald's death. This explained Vardaithil's contained rage, his ignorance of Aragorn's guilt in his brother's demise. He was not aware of it. He did not know that Aragorn had murdered Astaldogald!

The realization left him speechless. He could not fathom why Aratadarion would do such a thing, but it unnerved him. He felt relieved and enraged at once. Relieved that his bloodied hands would remain hidden. Enraged that he could not repent, that he could not ask for forgiveness. Whatever the reason, it was not his place to speak the truth. And this angered him greatly.

His stubborn pride would not allow him to smartly keep his mouth shut. "Legolas trusts me," he hissed. "Legolas found this cause right and worthy enough to make his own!"

Vardaithil hissed, "Legolas is dead."

"Legolas is-" But he could not finish. From the corner of his eye, he saw Aratadarion grimace and weakly shake his head. The frustration boiled in his blood and pounded in his heart, and the tense moment went on forever. He felt his body shake. Certainly Vardaithil had a right to know that Legolas was alive! He could not believe that Aratadarion had lied about this fact! His rage jolted and fired through him, and he balled his hands into fists. Still, how could he say anything? After a couple of seconds, he felt he could breathe again. The fire of his rage abated, leaving him weak and sorrowful. He sighed gently. "There is nothing I can say to change the way you feel, or to ease your pain. Know that I am sorry, and that I never meant to cause you harm." How shallow! How worthless! He began to wonder if Vardaithil was not right to blame him for all that had happened to Astaldogald and Legolas.

Vardaithil did not answer. Aragorn could not tell what the Elf thought of his words, for the other's face was blank and dark. The tense emptiness returned. Finally Vardaithil spoke. "I cannot make sense of this now. There is not the time. As much as we may dislike one another, we must nurture this alliance. Let us put this matter aside for the sake of our peoples."

Aragorn closed his eyes briefly. This was the last thing he wanted, to simply push this painful matter away once more, to ignore it and let it fester and torment. But he nodded, unable to argue the point. He simply did not know if he had the strength to face the eldest son of Thranduil, perhaps the most intimidating Elf yet on Middle Earth. Vardaithil stood a moment more, as if seeking to torture the defeated Aragorn with his mere presence, before turning and stalking away. Perhaps a truce had been offered, but the cold discomfort had shattered it, and the ranger despaired.

Aratadarion remained, standing still as the wind blew around him. The Elf's pale face was withdrawn and torn between anger and sorrow. There was still blood on his clothes. As Vardaithil mounted his horse and spurred the animal into a rushed gallop, Aratadarion lifted his gaze. Deep eyes glazed with pain sought his gaze, and then turned away.

Aragorn would not accept this. Some part of his mind reminded his brutalized heart that it was not his place to question, but this weak voice of logic was ignored, and he jumped forward and grabbed Aratadarion's retreating arm. He pulled the Elf prince back, forcing their confrontation. "What have you done?" he hissed in barely controlled fury. "Have you no sense? Why have you lied to your own kin?"

Aratadarion's eyes glowed with a warm anger, like an ember slow to die. "I did what I thought best," he retorted, his voice low and strong.

"What you thought best," repeated the king incredulously. "You cannot hide this from him forever! He will discover the truth eventually and fault you for your deceit!" Aragorn shook his head helplessly. "He must know Legolas lives. He must be told!"

"So that this too destroys him?" Aratadarion narrowed his eyes. "My brother is strong. He is my father's crown prince and the commander of this army. But even he cannot do what he must when distracted by sorrow and turmoil. He would kill you, Elessar, if he knew what you have done. Do not doubt this. He would avenge Astaldogald and Legolas, and the Last Alliance would fall. All Middle Earth would suffer for his grief and anger." The Elf curtly shook his head. "There may indeed be consequences later for my lies, but I will gladly face them than sacrifice all for which we have fought."

"You may be able to perpetuate such a falsehood, but it makes my soul black with guilt," Aragorn declared.

"I do not do this to hurt him, and I am terrified for Legolas." Aratadarion's eyes flashed with fear and anger. "The pain I feel inside is so strong at times that I cannot bear to breathe. Do not think that I do not care for him, or for Vardaithil. I know that Lord Elrond's daughter has taken Legolas to Rivendell, but I think no more of it than this, because I as well cannot be hampered by worry." The Elf shook his head and lowered his voice to a calming tone. "You must let Legolas go now. He would not want you to suffer such shame and worry."

His heart bled. "I cannot let him go!"

Aratadarion pulled away from him. His voice turned sharp. "Then you are selfish, Lord, selfish and a fool because of it. This fight between good and evil is more important than any one man or Elf. Legolas knew this." The breeze made the grass sing. "Why are you so blind?" Then he pivoted again and walked quickly to his horse. With a graceful leap he was upon the animal and riding away.

Aragorn felt tears burn his eyes, and he closed them to keep the weakness locked within. It made such sad sense, such cold logic, that he could not find it within himself to argue. He clenched and unclenched his fists and bowed his head. He felt so angry, so used and foolish.

Another thunder of galloping horses approached. He had no wish to face anything else!

"My Lord," came a familiar, breathless voice. The ranger opened his eyes and turned, blinking away the tears, as Faramir dismounted a horse. The young man was red-faced and winded as he bowed. "I apologize for my delay."

Aragorn was about to vent the horrible anger poisoning him, but he held his harsh words as he spotted Gandalf. The wizard appeared disheveled, his robe bloody and dirty, his face caked in sweaty muck. Blood marred his brow from a wound upon his temple. Confusion prickled through the ranger, and he momentarily abandoned his frustration. Upon a second inspection, he realized Faramir was as unkempt. "What has happened?" he asked, puzzled.

Gandalf gripped his staff. He seemed tired. "Saruman is dead," he announced simply, solemnly.

"Dead?" Surely not! Could this be true? Could this wonderful turn of events possibly be real? Faramir only nodded, regaining his breath and straightening his rumpled attire. For a moment Aragorn lingered, trying to make sense of the stupendous news. Saruman had been such a powerful enemy, one that had pursued and tormented. The ranger was euphoric and satisfied. This was certainly a good thing! The relief was nearly overwhelming, and Aragorn released a heavy sigh as his exhausted body shuddered. Saruman was dead! Dead! A great victory for their cause! Now the demented Istar had paid for all he had done, especially for the torture he had put upon Legolas!

Aragorn recovered then from his shock and contained his joy. He did not question the matter further. There were more pressing concerns. He looked to Gandalf, his worry breaking free once more and bringing an imploring tone to his voice. "Legolas is alive," he breathed, feeling weak and shaky. Gandalf watched him with sympathetic but urgent eyes. "He was wounded terribly and… I cannot explain it, Gandalf. Saruman brutalized him in ways that turn my stomach and break my heart. There was a black aura about him, a shadow strong enough to crush his light."

Gandalf's face wrinkled in uncertainty. "A shadow?"

"I know of no other way to explain it. Arwen sensed it as plain as I. He was… cold and dull. His eyes had no life, no vigor! It was as though the glowing vitality of his kind had utterly abandoned him…"

"How does he fare?" inquired Faramir, his tone low and his eyes open in concern.

Aragorn shook his head. "Not well. My Lady Arwen bravely took it upon herself to deliver him into the skilled hands of Lord Elrond, but I fear the journey long and treacherous." He returned his gaze to Gandalf, wistful and frightened. A part of him was disgusted at acting as such, but he was frantic with fear and dismay. He had to ask, no matter how selfish and childish! He had to! "Please, is there something you might do? I had hoped you might be able to tend Legolas when the healer mended his wounds, but it is too late now. Perhaps you could-"

"Do not ask it of me, Aragorn," Gandalf interrupted, his eyes pained and his voice tight. A wince twisted his face. "I might find the idea far too alluring, and I am needed here." Aragorn felt his hopes crash disastrously. He felt his temper fray and his guilty anguish grow. He thought he might suffocate. Gandalf grasped his shoulder tightly, the large, old hand strong and comforting. "You know as well as I that Legolas is stronger than most. If he wishes yet to live, he will. Lord Elrond will know how to help him, I am sure."

There was something more Aragorn thought to say, but he did not, for at that moment loud yelling from the front lines filled the air. The king snapped his attention to the northern parapet, scanning the line of the army for the source of the sound. The distance was too great to discern any particular movement. He stood still, his heart pulsing in a strange and anxious beat, and watched. The men became silent then, though there was a great blur of motion.

Faramir stepped up beside him, shaking his head. "Surely it cannot be-"

"It is," Aragorn declared in a harsh whisper. His eyes grew wide in shock, and though he tried to question, somehow he could not doubt the veracity of the awful realization. "They have come."

Like a horde of dark spiders, the Orc army flooded from the horizon. It stretched for miles, a black line of horrid warriors great and devastating. At this great distance it seemed an impenetrable wall of evil rushing forth, seeking to crush them, to surround and demolish. Aragorn watched, unsure of how to feel and uncertain of what to do. Were these the horrible odds that Elendil and Isildur faced upon the slopes of Mount Doom? Where had they found the strength to defy, the courage to raise their swords against the Dark Lord, the faith to lead their men? That endless line of enemies was undeniably his destiny, and here on this battlefield the fate of all Middle Earth would be decided. Such an immense responsibility! Yet Aragorn was surprisingly cool and numb now, lingering in this promised moment. As the thoughtless calm slowed his heart and eased his mind, he began to understand. His ancestors had not needed to look at all for the strength, courage, and faith. It was a simple matter of duty.

Knowing this was a balm to his battered soul, and he slipped into a clear state where thought was untroubled by emotion or turmoil. "Let us go," he stated simply, turning to his companions. "It is time." He looked to Faramir, saying nothing more but offering all his strength and bravery. The young man returned his gaze, his eyes valorous yet filled with an unspoken but wise sorrow. Then he nodded firmly, accepting what Aragorn promised without question.

The ranger then glanced to Gandalf. The ancient wizard's eyes were closed and his face pensive. "Gandalf?" asked he quizzically. The Istar did not respond, but in the silent moment that followed, a quiet murmuring filled Aragorn's ears. It took a moment for him to realize that the foreign chant came from his dear friend. He did not interrupt again, watching the wizard in awe as he spoke to the wind. The breeze carried his words. Then Gandalf was silent, and in his stead the crickets sang an amazing and loud chorus of chirps and whistles. Sweeping by them, the cool breeze brushed the grass, and from the reeds exploded a flurry of small insects. Fireflies rose, fluttering in the gale, winking in a stunning show of lights. They flew off, trailing a glow that seemed almost ethereal. Then it was silent.

Gandalf opened his eyes after a quiet instance, and focused upon his comrades. He offered a weak grin that belied the urgency of the situation. "A call for help," he declared. "Hopefully it will be of use to your Lady Arwen."

The king did not understand, but he did not speak of the matter. There was no time. Instead he jogged back to his horse. The page holding the reins was skittish, dancing about on nervous feet. He was glad to be rid of them, handing the sweaty leather to Aragorn. The ranger was atop his horse in a graceful and fluid leap. He did not turn to see if Faramir and Gandalf had followed his lead before kicking the stallion into a gallop.

He flew across the field, the horse running in the wind. In a matter of minutes he reached the parapet. It was a scene of controlled pandemonium for soldiers rushed about in every which way, scrambling to assume their posts. Along the ramparts a shoddy platform had quickly been constructed. The carpenters had obviously not had the time to reinforce the wooden planks used in its building, for the structure looked a bit unstable. Ladders were tipped against the platform, and archers raced up them with all possible speed. On the creaking platform they took their spot, hiding behind the old stonewall as they notched arrows to their bows. Behind this, captains and lieutenants ordered their company's men to form the defensive line as quietly as possible, and the men obeyed the soft orders. Some were praying. Some were weeping. Most were white-faced, terrified of the demonic force racing towards them.

Aragorn jumped from his horse. He did not pause for Faramir, but the young lord's voice he heard as he jogged forward. He grabbed the arm of a messenger. "Send word to Lord Vardaithil," he ordered, winded and frantic, to the frightened young man. "The enemy is near. Tell him to place his best archers on that wall. They must hold back the advance! They are to keep low and fire in volleys, as well timed as possible. A heavy, constant fire. If one falls, he must plug the hole in the line immediately! Do you understand?" The lad's face was ashen and his lip quivered, but he nodded in a jerked motion. Aragorn released his arm, and he ran off down the line of troops. Had the ranger not been beside himself with frenzy, he might have thought such a thing as ordering about a seasoned warrior and prince such as Vardaithil ludicrous. As it was, it seemed as mundane as commanding his own men.

Then he was moving again. His steady feet carried him up the shaking ladder, and he climbed one handed, the other coming to draw Andúril from its sheath. The archers on the platform awkwardly made space for him, darting to the side and pressing together to create room upon the narrow platform. The wood creaked and moaned under the weight. Aragorn prayed it would hold.

He crouched and peered over the rocks. They were about at the level of his shoulders. The wall would provide excellent cover. A moment later, Faramir was beside him. Together they spied upon the approaching menace.

They were close. Barely a few thousand feet separated the forces of good and evil upon this field. Faramir's rushed breathing was horribly loud, and Aragorn wiped the sweat from his face as he scanned the army. He could now see the features of the front line of Orcs, their hideous faces gleeful and mouths open in a jovial snarl. Twisted and gruesome weapons glinted in the sun. The sound of their stampede was more a roar as it neared.

Aragorn pressed his back to the stone then and closed his eyes. He cursed himself. His estimate was rough indeed, but it was accurate enough to be crushing and frightening. Sauron's army appeared significantly larger than what they had mustered. He swallowed, feeling his heart thunder and his stomach clench. His blood felt cold.

"Aragorn." It was Gandalf. The old wizard knelt beside him. In his depression, the ranger had not even noticed his approach. The soldiers watched the Istar in amazement. Aragorn met Gandalf's gaze, the old eyes comforting and glowing in affectionate encouragement. "Do not forget all who have suffered to bring you here, but do not be fettered by their memory. You stand because you are strong. You were meant to face this battle, and fate does not choose lightly."

He closed his eyes. In that moment, he saw them all, clear and vivid. Those that had died. Those that had sacrificed so that this battle could be won. Merry and Pippin. Gimli. Sam and Frodo. Boromir. Legolas.

_I will not fail any of you._

He turned his hard gaze forward and stood, lifting Andúril. The Orc army was nearing, their shouts of rage and anticipation poisoning the air. They were within the archers' ranges now, and the men and Elves took their aim, followed his lead in rising. The Orcs were spread far and wide, like a blanket of terrible evil. They would not ravage this land!

He felt hope. He knew courage. He was strength.

It was time.

" _Fire!_ "

* * *

Sam was exhausted. With the back of his chubby hand he wiped the sweat from his brow. He looked up and felt his spirits sink. They had traversed what seemed an impossible distance, fighting to climb the rocky slope of Mount Doom for most of the day. The path was steep and barely passable. Every step was a trial of loose rock and uncertain footing. His broken leg helped matters none, for the pain lamed him and his good leg was weary from the strain of added weight. It was difficult to hobble along, and it certainly added unneeded time and stress to their journey. Had he not been terrified of the very situation, he would have been furious.

Frodo sensed his need for a respite and stopped. Sam's arm was draped over his neck. They had halted in a crevice, in the shade of a large rock formation. It was not much, but the Hobbits were still grateful for the relief of the cooler temperature. The day was scorching, and as they approached the summit of Mount Doom, the heat increased two-fold. The land was rumbling, growling in anxiety and nervousness. Every so often the ground would shift and moan. It was as if the volcanic mountain sensed their approach and what they intended and was as worried about it as they.

Mordor was silent. It was an eerie trek, filled with nothing but the grumbling of the mountain and their own rushed breathing. The emptiness was chilling, for it signified something grave indeed. Since Frodo had found him, they had encountered no other resistance. The black land was empty, without Orc or ghoul, without demon or guard. That made their quest surprisingly and disturbingly easy, and Sam grew worried. Though it eased their own journey, it implied that Sauron had turned his dangerous attention to other matters. Days ago Frodo had spoke of a great menace marching west to Gondor. This barren and empty land was surely evidence of it, and every force the Dark Lord could spare had been deployed to destroy the nation of men. The thought alarmed Sam. He prayed the others were well. Surely Gandalf would do all he could to protect them!

He sagged in Frodo's arms, leaning back against the rock. He grimaced as his wounded leg pulsed and pounded. The limb felt numb with dull agony, and he wished for nothing more than to simply lie down and relieve the pressure from his back and other leg. But he could not. They were far too close now to give up!

He looked into the distance. There was perhaps another hundred feet or so between them and the pinnacle of the mountain. Hot air slammed against his face, and he squinted, watching Mount Doom belch black, putrid smoke furiously into sky. With any luck, they could reach their destination in another half an hour or so.

Silence. Sam shuddered. More frightening than the emptiness, than the unguarded roads and the immensity of what they were about to do, was Frodo. The Hobbit had changed, and his cold silence troubled his dearest friend. Sam saw it clearly in the other's misted, blue eyes. Something horrible had grabbed Frodo, had twisted him and hurt him. The once gentle and loving being was lost in a storm, drowning under a burden with which Sam knew he could not help. Frodo had not spoken a word since the night before when he had tried to take the Ring. Sam knew what was happening, and it terrified and panicked him. His dear friend, his brother, was weakening, crumbling under a strain of emotion so intense and powerful that it was swallowing his will. Sam felt foolish and inadequate. He had said nothing the previous night when his sleep had been shattered by Frodo's corruption. Truth be told, he had not known what to say or how to act. He had been torn between disgust and pity, fear and worry. Paralyzed by surprise, he had simply ignored Frodo's sickness and brushed aside what it meant.

Now the pain was nearly unbearable. There was wall between them, built from awkward pain and uncertain brotherly love. Frodo was slipping away from him, drifting into a misery that was borne from despair and desire for the Ring. What could Sam do to aid in this? He had pondered the matter in the silence for many hours, using his worries to distract his mind from the crushing weight of the Ring tucked away in his pocket. Worse still, he felt Frodo's burning gaze locked upon his jacket, staring as though unable to look away, watching as a dog watches a meal. He tried not to notice the hungry glances and stares, but they distressed him. As his mind swirled and churned, he realized there was only one way to rid Frodo of his illness. He had to end this.

So they had rode past Barad-Dûr, lurking in the blackness. Shadowfax drove through the haze, keeping close to the protection of ridges and crevices. They avoided the road, although it became clear that, though the fortress was dark and menacing, its inhabitants were away on errands of evil in the West. Sam remembered the fear he had felt as they passed and shuddered; his flesh crawled as he saw the black clouds swirl and fester around its tower. The Dark Lord was calling to the Ring, and the Ring answered, singing its foul chorus inside him. He wondered if Frodo had heard it as well, but his friend remained in glazed stupor of listless despair.

At the base of the mountain they had left Shadowfax. Sam had whispered to the great horse, promising the Halflings would soon return and asking for patience while they were gone. The animal had snorted and nodded, nuzzling Sam him before trotting behind a rock. And from there, Sam leaning heavily upon Frodo's cold body, they began their ascent.

They had little food and water left. They were tired, worn, and beaten. This was the promised moment, and he would not fail.

With a groan, he straightened his body. His muscles were cramped and tired, but he ignored their painful protest. He had almost wanted to shirk the responsibility of destroying the Ring. For a moment, he again pondered asking Frodo to take back the burden. But he immediately brushed it aside as folly and selfish. It was insane to offer such an alluring prospect to the ailing Frodo, and he knew, deep down inside where he could admit it, that he was terrified that he too would sink into the Ring's seductive comfort and lose his strength to do what was needed.

There was no time, and he was frightened and full of dread. They needed to press on.

Onward they trudged, struggling over loose, hard rock, fighting with the uneven and barely passable terrain. Sweat clung to Sam, sticking to his scalp and plastering his hair to his brow. His heart pounded, and with each step he felt he might collapse. He had no strength left. All that drove him was a need to be rid of this terrible burden, was a wish to hear silence in his heart where the Ring's song had taken root. He heard Gandalf's words, and it brought him valor.  _"We are meant to undertake the tasks we do, Sam, no matter how unlikely or unfair it may seem. That is an encouraging thought, after all. It means that we each have the power to do what is asked of us."_  He took a deep breath and swallowed his hurt. "Nearly there, now!" he gasped quietly.

And so, breathless, dirty, bloody, and beaten, they reached the very path that had carried Isildur to the fiery pit of Mount Doom. The trail was worn by time and tragedy. They hobbled along it, wheezing. As they neared the entrance, a blast of heat assailed them, and Sam grimaced. Inside was a light bright with fire and fury, and hot air singed his lungs as he breathed. The ground quaked, nearly spilling them, but they only stumbled. The air was foul with smoke, a vicious plume that seared the lungs. Sam grasped the burning rock of the ledge and looked down, wincing at the blaze.

Below was a vat of molten rock, churning and pulsing with incredible heat and power. Sam had never felt anything so potent and dangerous, and he could barely bring himself to look into it. Was this the source of Sauron's evil? Did it have the power to destroy his Ring?

He stood still then, lingering, wondering so many things yet unable to make sense of anything. What was he to do now?  _Take the Ring. You must destroy it!_ Numb, quivering fingers found their way into his inner coat pocket. He touched the Ring. It burned his fingertips. Sam closed his eyes and pulled it free, closing it tight in his palm.

A great turmoil erupted inside him. He did not want to look at it, frightened he would not find the will to part with it. Was this the same sick obsession that drove so many to hold tight to this Ring? Could he do now what so many had failed to accomplish in the past? Isildur had stood in this very place, and he had faltered. What made him sure that he could succeed? The song inside him was so loud, and he could not think. He could not think!

 _"Your first duty is to the Ring and to Frodo."_  Legolas' words cut through the barrage of voices blasting his resolve.  _"You must do this, Sam!"_

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Suddenly there was peace, and everything made simple sense. The Ring was silent, and he was free. He would do this. For Gandalf and Legolas. For Frodo.

He chuckled then. "Well, this is it," he said softly. He felt tears of elation burn his eyes. He opened his clenched hand, looking down upon the Ring. Such a simple thing! Such a lie! "We've done it, Mister Frodo!" No response. The fine hairs on the back of Sam's neck prickled. "Mister Frodo?"

There was a ring of metal on metal, and something cool and sharp fell against the side of his neck. Sam jerked, his heart stopping painfully, and he could not breathe. The edge of Sting was dangerously close to slitting his throat. He swallowed uncomfortably, shaking in terror and sorrow, and he looked slowly to his side.

Frodo glared at him, his arm dreadfully steady as he held his sword to his friend's neck. Sam gasped. In the other's eyes there was no soul, no life. Only the glint of corruption, the sick desire. The very same malicious glow he had seen in Boromir that fateful afternoon so many days ago at Amon Hen.

"Give me the Ring, Sam," Frodo said slowly. " _Now."_


	27. The Last Step

How could this be happening? It was not supposed to end this way! It seemed impossible that this promised moment of victory had shattered, ruined by a black evil so horrifying and familiar. Was it all for naught? The pain, the anguish, the fear? To have come so far, to have fought so hard, only to be in the end defeated by their own greed and weakness… The last step of this journey would be the worst! This was not the way it was meant to be!

Tears rolled down Sam's cheeks, streaking through the grime. "Please don't, Frodo!" he whimpered, wishing desperately that this was just some nightmare from which he might wake. Through the wetness in his eyes he watched his dear friend, his heart breaking at the blank expression in his eyes. His terror tortured him. If he raised his hand to throw the Ring, Frodo would kill him, of that he was dreadfully sure. Only his will remained strong enough to act, and it shoved his numbed, shocked mind into a panicked race for some way to stop the inevitable. "Not now! Not after everything we've been through! Mister Frodo!"

The black cover of Frodo's eyes broke for a moment. He released a choked sob, his frame quivering in anguish. Sam felt terribly helpless. "I can't, Sam," he whimpered. His pale face fractured in a taut expression of rage and regret. "I can't let you destroy it!"

 _Let us not come to this…_  He had to reach Frodo's heart and smash the hold of the Ring. He did not know if he had the strength when the wretched trinket in his palm still taunted and allured him so! "Frodo, please…" He took a deep breath to steady himself and turned slowly, praying that he did not threaten the riled Hobbit with any sudden movement. "Don't give into it now! It holds no sway over your heart! You are stronger than it!"

Sting was wavering now, pressing against Sam's neck. The Hobbit winced and whimpered in fear, feeling the edge nick his skin. "Give it to me, Sam!" he screamed, sweat glistening on his distorted face. He seemed more a demon, tormented and tortured by unnatural desire. Sam shook his head numbly, his voice lost and his resolve cracking. This only enraged Frodo. " _Give it to me!_ "

He closed his fist about the Ring. The shadow squeezing his heart tightened its grip, and Sam lost his strength. He closed his eyes and lifted his chin. He could not falter! He could not!  _Lend me the strength to do this!_

So they stood, the fires of Mount Doom raging all around, blasting the air and the two Hobbits. Neither could relent. The moment dragged on, time marching slowly into an uncertain future. There was evil everywhere, inside, outside, in rocks and bodies, in hearts and eyes and souls. A twist of fate had created this path, a perversion borne from lust and greed, from the Ring's evil. And now another twist made of the same such corruption would destroy it.

There came a piercing shriek, and a mass of blurred gray that vaguely looked to be arms and legs streaked past Sam's eyes. Surprise thundered over the Hobbit, and he reeled backwards, losing his balance, as Gollum landed heavily on top of him. He screamed as the slimy monster's fangs snapped, his grimy fingers clawing for Sam's tight fist that held the Ring. "Give Sméagol his precious! We wants it! Give it,  _gollum!_ " Those sharp teeth bit and those nails scratched, drawing blood and tears. Sam gasped, struggling to breathe, as Gollum rammed his knee into the Hobbit's stomach. He fought back frantically, instinct guiding his body for his mind was silent in horror.

He clenched his hand tighter about the Ring as Gollum shrieked and howled, ripping at the flesh of his curled fingers. With his other hand, Sam scrambled for Legolas' knife. After a terrible eternity of desperately reaching, his fingertips brushed the hilt, and he took hold. A muted cry of fury passed his lips as he ripped the shimmering blade free. Gollum screeched in hapless terror and leaned back, but he was not fast enough to avoid the swipe of the sharp edge. It slashed into his arm, and the little creature hollered his pain, clambering off of Sam.

Breathing heavily, Sam tucked his hand close to his chest. The knife he held before him. In the bright orange and yellow light the blade glowed like liquid fire. "Stay back!" he shouted, his voice shaking. Gollum slithered closer, pressing his injured arm to his side. "You foul creature! I won't let you take it! Stay back, I say, or I'll hurt you worse!"

But the stakes were clearly too great for Gollum, Sam realized in a flurry of panic. The strange creature could not allow Sam to destroy the Ring; his addiction to its power was simply too demanding and overwhelming. Gollum sneered cruelly and pounced again.

Frodo growled lowly and grabbed the demon's skinny arm, yanking him back. Gollum would not so easily be subdued and yelled his frustrated fury while belting Frodo across the face. The Hobbit yelped and staggered, Sting clattering to the floor. Yet he too was driven, and he regained his balance easily. A determined glint shone in his eyes. Sam saw no more, though, for Gollum was upon him again. With his leg so injured, he could but painfully kick and turn as the creature assaulted him, hoping to beat him senseless enough so that he might relinquish his prize.

Sam cringed as Gollum managed to slam the hand holding the knife into the ground and pin it there, leaving him defenseless. Placing all his weight upon the Hobbit to keep him immobile, Gollum grunted and reached, straining to grasp Sam's other hand. Sam lodged his knee against Gollum's chest, pushing the beast back. The small, stout Gamgee kept his balled fist above his head and for the moment out of reach, but he knew his strength was waning. Gollum's fetid stench invaded his nose. That, combined with the heat and the weight upon his chest, made it difficult to breathe. He had to do something to escape! Panic churned in his stomach and he whimpered his desperation. He was too weak!

Suddenly another grip latched onto his free wrist, pulling it to the ground. Sam ripped his eyes above and behind him. The Hobbit felt his heart break.

Frodo pressed his hand to the burning rock. With his sweaty fingers, the other Hobbit pulled and pried at Sam's tightly closed ones. His dear friend turned ally to the darkness! He was so alone and helpless!

He wept then, for there was but one choice left him. He despised this option, but time was rapidly running out, and he could never hope to defend himself in this state against both Frodo and Gollum. It filled his heart with deadly dread. How he ached for Frodo! How he feared for himself! He did not want to embrace that which he hated and yearned to destroy, but there was nothing left to do, and he had little strength left.

Sam took a deep breath to steady himself. Then he kicked up with his good knee and caught the unsuspecting Gollum in the jaw. The creature gasped his pain and fell to the side. It was enough to stun Frodo, and Sam was quick to take advantage of the moment, yanking his arm free from his friend's hold. He knew he could not stand, much less run, so he ignored his wailing heart and opened his palm.

The Ring's song soared inside him. He had no time to try to ignore it. Frodo and Gollum were upon him seconds later, their treasure free for their taking. Yet they were not fast enough, for Sam slipped the Ring onto his finger, and vanished from their world.

There was a soundless flash of light and dark, and he was whisked into a fiery hell. Nausea claimed him as the disjointed brightness and shadow flooded his eyes, bleeding into a blurry and disorienting scene of moving shapes and figures. His courage and strength nearly depleted, he did only what was needed to escape. His hand tight about the knife, he ripped it up. There was no sound and he strangely felt nothing, but he knew somehow that the blade had met its mark. The world shook and shuddered, and the weight left his chest. Pulling the weapon free, he scrambled away as quickly as he could, clambering across the heated, black surface. Only when he had reached the end of the rock walkway did he stop.

It was then the immensity of where he was struck him. Sam tucked himself into a tight ball, not wanting to look but unable to divert his gaze. It was a terrible sight. The twilight of life and love, surrounded by the blackest hatred and contempt. The Ring burned around his finger, joyous and elated in his mind, and he could not help but feel its powerful happiness. It disgusted him, but it also pleased him somehow.

It was calling to its Master.

From the depths of Sam's heart, Sauron responded. Those quiet, rough words so often chanted in the corners of his consciousness become a gay song of renewed attention. The Dark Lord was beckoning vigorously from Barad-Dûr, embracing the spirit of the Ring. Sam felt weightless, lifeless, hopeless. There was no substance to him or his body. He was but an object in this strange world.

A piercing howl sliced through the cacophony of wind. His blood ran cold as he recognized it. The Ringwraiths! Ai, they were coming, heeding their Master's request to save his precious Ring from destruction! Were he not so disjointed and terrified, Sam might have realized the folly of his choice to wear the Ring. He should have known better! The Ring did give, but it always asked for much in return. Now he would die, and the Nazgûl would take back the trinket! Damn him for his stupidity!

He screamed his furious despair, but his voice was a soundless wail in a deafening roar of Sauron's triumphant song. Sam was paralyzed. There was nowhere to hide in this world, no place he might run. Perhaps he might have thought to remove the Ring and easily toss it into the molten depths all around him. But the simplest of actions suddenly seemed impossible, and the Ring had gained control of his mind and body. He could do nothing but feel and see. All that remained of him was his heart's crumbling last defenses as the dark forces battered it.

He resigned himself to a death he could only hope would come. Slowly he looked up and squinted.

It was amazing, even beautiful. Flames of white and black raced up the walls of Mount Doom's mouth, coming to converge in a bizarre blazing ceiling. From its center bled reds and oranges, bringing hues to the colorless fire. They lapped at him, warm and soothing. Such an awesome sight that brought wonder to his heart! That was, of course, until he realized at what he truly gazed.

A thin, black iris stared at him, bathed in fire and murder.

He was inside the Eye.

* * *

The wall shuddered, and Aragorn nearly lost his footing. He grabbed for a hold as the platform creaked and cracked. The wood was resilient, though, and held steady to the pounding. Aragorn grunted and quickly righted himself, grabbing more arrows from the quiver of a fallen archer. He notched them quickly and took aim. There was no shortage of targets, and he let the shot fly powerfully in a breath. It sunk deep into the eye of an Orc, and the beast howled. Its last cry was lost in a great dissonance of shouting, screaming, clanking swords and armor, and whizzing arrows. Its body disappeared just as quickly, trampled under the pounding feet of the assaulting Orcs.

There was a sea of the enemy beneath them. The Orcs howled and yelled their fury, pounding at the wall in frustration. The ground was a mess of corpses and blood, a gruesome mud of red gore and dirt. Commanders ordered their archers to fire again, the edict echoing down the parapet, and a rain of razor sharp arrows descended upon the mess of monsters. In the craze, Aragorn could not see how many of their opponents they had managed to fell. Sauron's forces returned fire of their own, and those archers unlucky enough to not have a place to duck were hit. The king winced as blood splashed upon him, a soldier beside him catching an arrow in neck. The man screamed and pitched, falling from the platform and tumbling back into Gondor's army behind them. Another archer was quick to hop up the ladder behind them and take his spot.

Aragorn unleashed an arrow, his shot joining the volley of their return fire. Another wave of Orcs died, but it seemed to do little. Sweat stung the ranger's eyes as he looked to the horizon. They continued to flood onto the field; ten more Orcs appeared for each one they killed. Doubt and fear coiled in his stomach, and flashes of the disaster at Helm's Deep kept resurfacing to dent his resolve. Cold chills raced up and down the small of his back as he knelt, grasping Faramir on the arm. The young lord met his gaze, searching about the bodies on the platform for free arrows. Medics and free men pulled down the dead and carried the wounded from their stronghold as quickly as possible, but it was simply not fast enough.

Faramir breathed heavily, pushing a lock of hair behind his ear as he clenched the shafts of the arrows in his palm. Archers were rising again to fire, and the twang of bowstrings was loud in the late afternoon. "I have sent men to the arms depot for more arrows," declared Faramir, turning to crouch and lean against the wall, "and for rocks and hot oil that we might wield against them." He did not need to speak further, for his eyes were expressing his concern plainly, and Aragorn already understood what he could not say. They were massively outnumbered. An hour had passed since the battle had begun, and they had been able to maintain their position but at a greater loss than he had anticipated. Sauron's forces seemed as unbelievably huge now as they did when they had first reached the wall. Many of Gondor's archers were wounded and dead, leaving the less able to brandish a bow upon the wall. Reports from Lord Vardaithil indicated that his situation was only marginally better. They had yet to repel the onslaught of their attack, and they crowded like rabid dogs at the wall's base. This could continue well into the night, Aragorn sadly realized, and they were slowly depleting ammunition stores. Orcs were not overly intelligent creatures, but they were tireless. Eventually the Last Alliance would run short of arrows or people to effectively fire them, and the Orcs would learn. Surely they had brought some sort of supplies to storm the wall! Darkly he mused that such equipment might not even be necessary. Perhaps the pile of fresh corpses would grow so large as to reach the top of their stronghold.

The ramparts quivered dangerously, and Aragorn winced as shots clanged loudly against the stone. Men fell, struck by black, vicious arrows, some pin wheeling and tumbling over the wall into the howling mass of Orcs below, others stumbling back and collapsing like a dead weight into the troops. The king waited until the piercing of shattering stone stopped, and then rose and commanded his men to fire in a loud, frustrated yell. Those that remained followed his lead, twisting and turning to face their attackers and letting loose as many shots as possible. Orcs howled in their death, stumbling in a fearless charge against the wall. It shook again as the army rammed it, and Aragorn fell to a crouch.

"Aragorn." The king turned at his name. Gandalf pushed along the narrow ledge, stepping almost magically around obstacles at incredible speed. The wizard appeared concerned, his dirty face apprehensive. "The wall cracks at its foundation. We may lose this ground sooner than we thought!"

Aragorn cursed inwardly, his mind racing. "Could masons reinforce it?" he asked of Brodderband.

The lord was momentarily distracted by wiping the blood from a cut on his brow. He lowered his hand and then paid the king his attention. "Perhaps," he conceded, his voice a shout to be heard over the clamor of battle. "I will send for them immediately. But the lads on the wall are weary and weak, my Lord. They cannot hold this with such intensity much longer." Brodderband saluted and then rushed off to find men to repair the wall.

Aragorn's heart thundered. Oh, how he wished for a clear action, for a simple solution! Deep inside him a snide voice sneered that he had lost this, that the situation was dire and hopeless. Though he wished to deny, his logic and pessimism supported the conclusion. The wall would crumble under the strain of the Orcs' battering. The archers were dying far too quickly, and those that remained were tired and weak. They could not be sure their supplies would last the time needed to defeat Sauron's army. Retreat seemed the only option!  _No! If we lose this, we will be forced into the city! They will surround and siege us! We must hold this!_

So deep in his thoughts, he did not immediately realize what the others found particularly unnerving. Faramir grabbed Aragorn's knee, lowering his bow. "They have stopped!" he gasped. The young lord turned around and knelt, glancing at the field beyond.

Silence. Aragorn felt his blood chill and gooseflesh rise. Faramir was unquestionably right; the afternoon had become eerily still. The Orcs had ceased their blood-curdling battle cries. The assault of the wall had terminated as well. His booming heart deafened him. A cool breeze brushed over him, whistling in the grasses. All was quiet.

Gandalf sighed. Gasping, Aragorn turned to the ancient Istar, anxiety riddling him. His flesh crawled when he saw Gandalf's ashen face. The wizard focused his once distant gaze upon his friend. The ranger regarded him with imploring eyes, afraid of what was serious enough to distress the strongest of all Istari. Gandalf spoke quietly, so that only those closest could hear. "They are coming."

Aragorn's stomach dropped. His limp fingers nearly dropped his bow.

"Wraiths!" one of the archers atop the wall shrieked. The ranger ripped around. "Ringwraiths, my Lord!"

The emptiness continued for a terribly long moment, as if time was waiting for the horror of what was happening to sink its venomous teeth into their hearts. Then all eyes were trained on the massive army of Orcs. There was at first nothing but the still beasts, standing erect and powerful in the dying, bloody sun. Then the lines of black warriors parted. Through the path they created, a dark menace thundered along the plain. Aragorn squinted, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

A shrill shriek cut through the silence. The other riders answered in a chorus of screams. A murmur went through the men, a whisper of terror and panic. Aragorn lurched forward, standing and grabbing the stone wall. They tore across the field, their great black horses snorting as they ran. The thunder of their hooves filled the silence, and the Orcs pressed to each other in shrinking away from the massive demons.

Aragorn shook his head numbly. Sauron's black servants reached the wall and formed a line parallel to it. The king understood immediately what was about to happen. The Nazgûl were going to ram the fortification!

"Hold steady!" the king shouted, recovering his stature. The man were quivering and shooting him awkward glances that Aragorn struggled to ignore. In truth it shook him greatly. He could only rationalize this grievous turn of events. It could not make a difference! They still had to fight and hold this land!

The Nazgûl drew their pale blades. One rode forward slowly, confidently, upon a great, black winged stallion. The Witch King. The horse snorted and pawed at the ground. The demon's dark, shadowy cloak ruffled in the breeze. It raised its sword, and its horse reared. Then it shot forward in a lightning advance.

Aragorn took careful aim at the careening Witch King and then let his shot fly in a flash. The other archers followed his lead, letting loose a barrage of arrows. Yet they were little more than flies to the demons, brushed aside and deflected. The ranger felt nausea crash into him, dizziness and fear sucking away his will and strength.

The massive front legs of the Witch King's horse pounded into the wall. The stone shattered and the structure shook violently. Aragorn pitched forward, barely securing his balance as his fingers scraped over the stone. He yelped as the long, steel blade whizzed narrowly by his face. A steel, black gauntlet tipped with sharp nails slammed down at the top stone, pulverizing the rock into dust. Another Nazgûl reached over the top of the wall and down to the platform. Its dark hand viciously grabbed Aragorn's arm.

"Lord!" cried Faramir.

Aragorn could not breathe. His limbs were weak and useless as he struggled. Suddenly a gloved hand wrapped into his surcoat and yanked him back. He saw the sky, heard distant shouting and squealing, felt himself being yanked back. He blinked and the daze shattered like glass. Fear crawled over him. "King of men…" hissed the Witch King. The sword came down below Aragorn's chin. "Perish!"

Faramir gave an angry cry as he landed a fierce kick into the Witch King's shoulder. The Ringwraith shrieked in anger as it lost its grip and fell backward. The Blade of Gondor exited its sheath with a song of pride and power. This the young lord swung mightily at the Nazgûl grasping his king. The attack caught the demon unaware, and the sword smacked against its chest. The painfully tight grip on his arm was gone in an instance, and the threatening tip of the weapon left the vulnerable flesh of his neck.

Shrieks and screeches filled the air, piercing ears with pain and hearts with fear. The other Nazgûl battered their fortitude instantaneously with horse and sword. Gandalf helped the shuddering Aragorn to his feet and steadied him as the wall shuddered and buckled. Faramir was not so fortunate. The rocks against which he leaned for support cracked and broke with a bang, spraying stone all about. The young man gave a cry of terror and surprise as he lost his footing. He pitched forward, arms pin wheeling, and tumbled unto the battlefield.

Faramir hit the ground hard on his side with a loud thud. For a moment he lay there, groaning, struggling to catch his wind. It was a moment wasted, but it mattered little. The Nazgûl surrounded and circled the fallen lord like buzzards did carrion.

"Faramir," gasped Aragorn in panic. He shook his head numbly. Helpless fury coursed over him like lightning. He struggled away from Gandalf, rushing to the edge of the parapet. He leapt onto the stone where it had broken away. He would not lose another friend! " _Faramir!_ "

The Witch King hissed gleefully, its dark cape fluttering in the breeze, as it struck. Faramir barely raised himself and his own weapon in time to deflect the blow. The other Nazgûl stabbed at his vulnerable side, slashing him across the breast. Faramir screamed as the cursed blade cut through his surcoat and chain mail, slicing into his skin. He stumbled back into the wall, his free hand pressed over the wound.

There was no time!

The Witch King raised its wicked sword to strike the hapless Faramir, the other Ringwraiths surrounding him following its lead.

Aragorn could not find it within him to breathe, to think, to feel. He could not look away!

The murderous stab never came, for at that moment something strange seem to come over the Nazgûl. Each stopped and lifted its shrouded head, as if hearing a message from afar that was meant for them alone to perceive. Time stood still as the demons lingered, leaving all in a panicked, paralyzed attention.

Then the Witch King gave a howl that seemed to echo over the plains. The Orcs snorted and yapped in confused fear. The most unusual act occurred, one that astounded and perplexed. The Ringwraiths pivoted and returned their blades to scabbards hidden by black and shadow. Their lord mounted its massive steed. In a flash they turned and raced off in a flight so rapid it challenged the eye to follow it. Seconds later they were out of sight, disappearing as quickly as they had come.

Aragorn wasted no time. He turned to the other side of the platform. "Give me the ladder!" he bellowed. "Hurry!" Stunned soldiers were jolted into action by the harsh, frantic tone in their king's tone. They hauled up the wooden structure and carried it to the other side, teetering precariously with the heavy, awkward frame. They lowered it down with Aragorn's help. It was not quite long enough, for there was a bit of a depression on the other side of the wall. "Faramir!"

The young lord snapped from his frightened trance. He crawled to the ladder, limping slightly, and grabbed the rungs. Wincing and gasping, he pulled himself up its length as fast as he could. When he reached the top, Aragorn leaned over the wall as far as possible. The Orcs were coming again!

Finally Faramir's hand locked into his. Aragorn grunted, bearing his teeth in the effort, as he strained with all his might to pull the young man to safety. An archer reached down to grabbed Faramir's other arm, reinforcing Aragorn's grasp. Another launched an arrow at an Orc scrambling to follow, killing it instantly. The men rallied to save their Steward's son, swiping and shooting at the creatures reaching for Faramir's feet. Finally they lifted the young lord to safety. Two soldiers had the ladder back behind the wall seconds later as Aragorn stepped back with Faramir's wheezing form.

Up and down the wall the fight resumed. With renewed fervor the men took their positions. They did not understand how or why they had been spared the wrath of Sauron's Nazgûl, but they had, and knowing that was apparently enough to rejuvenate their spirits.

Aragorn eased Faramir down, pressing his back against the wall. "How badly are you wounded?" asked the king, watching as the red-faced young man struggled to catch his breath. Faramir still held the Blade of Gondor in his hand. Its end was covered in a misty, black blood.

"Not badly," he wheezed. Aragorn wrapped an arm around Faramir's shoulder. Tears built in the ranger's eyes, blurring his vision. He felt the guilty wretch for what Faramir had done. The young man had saved his life from the violent rage of the Nazgûl. They would have seen him dead, and the nation of Gondor rendered hopeless and leaderless. What a hero Faramir was! What a wonderful friend! And yet Aragorn knew he was undeserving, rotten almost, for he had done nothing to warrant Faramir's trust, and the young man had without second thought offered his life for his king's. The ranger had disowned Boromir, cast him aside, refused him the acceptance he had sorely needed to find again his valor! And now Boromir was dead… How could Faramir feel such loyalty, such compassion?

He held the hand of a truly great man. Faramir met his gaze, sweat covering his face in a glowing sheen. Aragorn could not find it within himself to speak, the words lost in a thick lump in his throat, his bravery but a fluttering wisp in his heart. But he needed to say nothing because Faramir appraised him with an understanding look. He nodded, grinning weakly, and squeezed Aragorn's fingers. Then he fell back, gasping.

A bit of panic surged within the king. He eyed the wound on Faramir's breast. "Send for a healer," he snapped, "quickly!" He heard a soldier grunt and sprint down a ladder. He pulled away the severed chain mail and cloth. The laceration was not deep and had cauterized instantly, so there was hardly any blood. The skin around it was already inflamed with the poison. Wounds from Morgul blades were extremely painful and sometimes fatal. Fortunately the injury did not seem serious.

"Do not bother, Aragorn," whispered Faramir, his eyes squinting in agony. "I will be fine momentarily."

"Nay, it is no bother," returned Aragorn. "I can ease the pain when the healer arrives."

Gandalf grasped Faramir's other shoulder to steady him. "Rest now, young man. You have done well today!" Faramir smiled again and closed his eyes, leaning tiredly back into the wall.

Aragorn shook his head, his mind racing. The full extent of what had just happened was slowly beginning to strike him now that he was sure Faramir was safe. "Gandalf," he began, somewhat winded, "why did they abandon their attack?"

"I cannot say for certain," remarked the old wizard. The rage of the battle nearly drowned out his voice, but Aragorn could still hear his thoughtful words. "But I believe Sauron is threatened."

"Threatened?" he echoed incredulously. He did not comprehend the implication of Gandalf's statement immediately, but when the fog of fear and relief cleared from his mind, he began to understand. "Sam and Frodo…" he breathed. Gandalf only nodded, his eyes grave.

The ranger glanced to the east, towards the faintest blood red staining the horizon. He knew it was Mount Doom seeping its evil fire into the sky. Aragorn closed his eyes and reached out his heart. As much as he did not want to admit it, he knew that any victory they might win on this field would mean little unless Sam and Frodo destroyed the One Ring. Unless they succeeded, Gondor and all of Middle Earth would still inevitably fall.

In the chaos all around, he grasped a single moment of peace and let himself believe.  _Let them be brave. Let them have strength!_ Then it all resumed, the noise, the death, the horrible fight. He prayed the resourceful Hobbits somehow fared better than he.

* * *

He was gone, lost, trapped in a cell of his own making. The bars were made of a dark fire, and he had not the strength any more to test them for weakness. A demon had possessed him, a demon driven by rage and greed. As his soul withered in the prison, he tried to convince himself that the imposter within him was some sort of alien spirit, something foreign. The fault lied not with him! Yet this was a selfish falsehood, and he knew it. The madness within, seduced into an ambitious drive by the Ring, had simply broken free. It was as much a part of him as his goodness and charity. He had let this happen, too weary and worn to fight any more. What was the use anyway? Destroying the Ring would accomplish nothing!

This monster moved his arms and limbs in a most heinous act. He wanted to scream but he was gagged by his own fear. It was a terrible feeling, to watch his body commit crimes that turned his stomach. But he could not form thoughts to counteract or struggle, numb in the allure of the Ring's promise. There was nothing left of him. All that had transpired had weathered away his soul to leave but one thought: he wanted it to end. If taking the Ring would put a stop to this torment, then he would gladly do such!

At the moment, Sam had somehow managed to elude him. This was but an act of desperate folly, he knew, and he almost reveled in Sam's stupidity. Silly fool! Sauron would surely turn his attention back to them and send all his forces to recover the Ring! He had only brought down upon him the wrath of the Dark Lord!

He clenched Sting tighter and narrowed his eyes. He felt not the aches of his body or the exhaustion of his limbs. There was only the need for the Ring, and he followed it with all his spirit. At this time the One called to him, drawing him with a sense beyond that of physical and tangible experience, pointing his leering heart in the right direction. His eyes saw through this world into the next, where shadow bled into light, and he knew where to go.

He stomped to the end of the rocky outcropping. There was nothing but a heat strong enough to distort the air, creating a glassy picture of rock and fire. He smiled; he knew better, and Sam would not hide from him.

He reached down, down into a different place perhaps, and took hold. He thought he heard a cry of surprise, and his greedy fingers desperately sought the Ring. Its nearness drove him mad with desire!

Sam reappeared with a gasp. He had pulled the Ring from his finger, obviously realizing that wearing it did little besides draw to him the Eye of the Dark Lord. He wasted not a breath and launched upon Sam. "Give it to me!" he hollered, furious lust in his tone. He pummeled the other, dropping Sting in order to gain better leverage upon his sobbing friend. "What chance do you think you have? Sauron has seen you! He will take it back!" Such horrible, wretched logic!

Sam whimpered as he crushed his wounded leg into the ground. They were dangerously close to the edge of the gritty rock, and the heat was painful. The other Hobbit could form no words, his mouth open in a silent cry of ultimate anguish. "It could have been mine! It should be mine! Give it to me! It was mine to bear, mine! Give it to me now!"

His hands locked upon Sam's throat, and he squeezed with a murderous intent. His friend gagged and choked, his face burning red, as he held the Ring above his head. He ground his teeth together and squeezed, angry beyond all comprehension. He cared for nothing besides the Ring! Nothing! "It is mine," he hissed through clenched teeth. "I will kill you for it!"

The struggle lasted a few moments as he strangled Sam. It was a horrible sight that ripped at the heart with a vicious knife of betrayal and despair. Harsh breathing filled the air. Sam's wide eyes rolled back into his head as he fought for breath. He shook him, as if pushing the spirit from his body. Yes, he would kill him! And then the Ring would be his!

Finally, he struck the dying Sam across the face with his fist in an added touch of sadistic malice. This was enough force to jostle Sam's limp body, and his fist came open. He gasped. The Ring! It fell from Sam's palm to the ground. Fate, as it would have it, did the impossible deed for them. The little gold trinket, glowing wickedly in the light of its birthplace, twinkled as it rolled on its side almost innocently to the edge. It dangled on the cusp of the rock for but a moment, yet that moment lasted an eternity of lost breath and unbelieving stares. Then the air gave it a tiny push, and it tumbled down.

Silence.

Nothing.

_No!_

A shrill scream came almost instantaneously from behind him. Gollum jolted forward, bleeding horridly from the wound in his chest, and grabbed for the falling Ring. His fingers but brushed the band. In an act of sheer insanity, the horrid little creature dove after it with a cry. "My precious!"

He scrambled to the edge, watching in heart-stopping disbelief as both the Ring and Gollum struck the molten rock below, the latter releasing a gruesome shriek. In that quiet second, he contemplated following his beloved, hateful Ring. But he had no time to make a decision, for a great and amazing thing then happened.

There was a deafening explosion of air and sound, and he cried as the force knocked into him. Light became shadow, shadow became the sun, and everything bled heat. Above the clouds thundered and roared, splitting as a great vortex of spinning air formed over the top of Mount Doom. In the cacophony nothing could be heard but the wind and pounding of his heart. Time seemed to slow, and in the violent swirl the Ring's evil shattered. He watched, unable to think or feel or even breathe, as Sauron's servants were pulled from the sky above into the storm. The Nazgûl were sucked down into the void, their pale, twisted faces emerging from the winds only to be pulled back. They screamed in their demise. The twilight world pulled tighter into itself, pulverized by the power of reality, and Sauron's evil shrunk into a tiny speck of light.

Soundless thunder cracked, shaking the crater, and that star exploded in a force powerful enough to topple him.

Then it was quiet.

The Ring was no more!

Frodo cried as he broke free from his cell. Powerful relief and euphoria washed over him in a great shudder. The Ring's call was silent, fleeing from his mind, leaving his soul and heart unbound! The monster of his corruption shriveled and died. He was free. He was free!

He was falling!

The small creature had no time to right himself, so disoriented and disjointed, as he came in control of his body again. His balance had been destroyed by the wave of energy in the destruction, and he stumbled back. A sense of terrifying weightlessness struck him and he flailed in panic. The heat scorched his back. His heart stopped. Mindlessly he reached for something,  _anything_ , to stop his descent.

Miraculously his fingers struck the ledge. His body was yanked painfully, and he nearly lost his grip. Frodo whimpered, tears leaking from his eyes, as he looked up. He was dangling off the edge, below him all the fury of Mount Doom. His arms cried out in strain, and he tried to pull himself up. He simply did not have the strength, and he grunted in defeat. His heart sank in a mire of despair. The Hobbit's fingers slipped. He would die here!

A hand came down from above and grabbed his wrist. Frodo jerked up, unable to believe it. Another reached down to grip his other hand. "Hold on, Mister Frodo!" He felt his soul break in relief.  _Oh, Sam! Sam!_

His friend's head, covered in its mop of curly hair, appeared above the edge. Frodo quaked, so overjoyed to be saved that he felt his stomach twist and heave. He gagged on his breath, choking on his sobs. After that, there were no words shared, only grunts of effort and tears of liberation. Frodo kicked, fighting to find a foothold on the face of the rock. When he did, he pushed himself up. Sam grabbed the back of his coat and pulled. A moment later he was safe, sturdy rock beneath his body once more.

Frodo collapsed into Sam's embrace. "Sam! Sam!" he wailed, burying his face in his friend's breast. Sam tightly wrapped his arms around his friend as he sobbed heavily and without reservation, bearing together their pain and anguish. "Sam, I am so sorry! I am so very sorry!"

Sam held tight to him, and he to Sam. They stayed as such for a long while, struggling to rise past all that just transpired, immensely glad to simply be alive and together. To be themselves again! Hearts beat with joy and elation.

Then Sam sniffled. Frodo leaned back, his face streaked with tears. "We've done it, Mister Frodo," Sam gasped, his face glistening with tears. "I can hardly believe it! We've done it!"

Frodo could think of nothing to say. His mind was far too numb to feel guilt or sorrow over what he had nearly done. Of the monster he became. Instead he rested in the security of their success. He managed a weak smile.  _You have done it, Sam. You saved us all!_ If not for Sam, he would have succumbed forever, and the Ring would have been lost. He would have died… Yet the wonderful Hobbit, his stout and loyal friend said nothing of it, humble and strong. Dear, wonderful Sam! But Frodo said nothing of it, knowing Sam would disclaim honor or privilege anyway. Feeling rather unworthy, he simply declared, "I'm glad, Sam. I'm so very glad!"

The Hobbits found it within themselves a moment later to stand, and Frodo retrieved their fallen weapons. Sam was bruised and bloodied but otherwise hale, veritably glowing with pride and happiness. He draped his arm again over his friend's neck. Frodo felt his despair and guilt then poking through the joy of what they had accomplished. But he pushed it aside for the time being. The moment was simply too stupendous and amazing for regret! There would be time later to come to terms with what happened.

Sam shook his head sadly then, staring into the glowing, liquid rock below them. His face fell a bit, his bright eyes dimming with pensive sorrow. "I almost feel sad for that little creature," he remarked. There was pity in his voice, and a great deal of confusion.

Frodo narrowed his eyes. "Gandalf told me he might have a part to play in all of this," he murmured quietly. What a strange irony! Without Gollum, how different this might have been! Frodo might have never followed Sam across the Anduin. He would have never found Legolas' knife, which just moments ago defended Sam against their attacks. He might have murdered Sam himself, if not for Gollum's interruption! Fate had twisted indeed, making the most unlikely of people the most important of players in its game. Frodo supposed he should have felt ashamed or at least sad, but all he knew was soothing relief. That demon, twisted by his love for the Ring, so driven by it that he would have rather leapt to his death in its pursuit than live without it… That demon could have been him. "I know now that he was right!"

Such thoughts were better suited for another time. Now they had to escape, to shrug their burdens and return to their friends. Shadowfax was undoubtedly waiting at the foot of the mountain. The mighty horse could lead them to safety and to the others.

"Let's go, Sam," he said then, tearing his blank eyes from the abyss of molten rock. He offered his dear friend a grateful, quivering smile. "We've done what we came to do."

And so they did. They limped from the top of Mount Doom sharing a companionable silence that, for the first time in so very long, was not wrought with despair. The wall had come down between them, and they were bonded again in love and trust. There was pain and guilt left to be understood, and fear still to be conquered, but these were but tiny grievances in the moment. Somehow, they had done the impossible. They had taken the last step of this unforgettable and perilous journey together, ending it as it had begun. How incredible that was! How incredible that two simple, unremarkable Halflings who had for all their childhood only dreamed of adventure changed the future of Middle Earth! Though they did not speak it, both thought the same thing, heard the same warm and friendly declarations of the Gandalf the Grey made so many days back.

_"Hobbits really are amazing creatures. You can learn all that there is to know about their ways in a month, and yet after a hundred years they can still surprise you in a pinch!"_

Never before had a day come that proved those words so true!


	28. Defiance

The rain fell hard and cold. It came a in a dreary, steady drizzle, soaking into the ground, dripping from leaf and branch, blowing on a chilly breeze. The sky overhead was dark with twilight and heavy gray clouds, the storm releasing its icy tears without relent. The air was tight and damp, unforgiving to the skin and lungs. The night was but a few hours off, but there would be no release from the sour weather. The ominous overcast above promised only more rain.

Arwen bit into her lower lip, struggling hard not to shiver. The wetness clung to her, seeping through her clothes to coat her skin in a cold, uncomfortable sheen. The spray from the ride splattered in her eyes and filled her hair beneath her hood. Yet she did nothing but press on, glancing momentarily at her charge. Legolas' hood had fallen away from his face, exposing his vulnerable skin to the driving needles of the icy deluge. She reached down and pulled the cloth back over his head to protect him, and dropped her hand to his brow. He still burned with a horrible fever. She tenderly cupped his cheek to lift his limp head against her shoulder, and looked forward.

It had been nearly two days since they had raced from Gondor. They had traveled tirelessly and silently, charging northwest towards the gap of Rohan. Until now they had not stopped once, riding straight through the night at an unnatural pace. Glorfindel had not tried to convince her to rest then, knowing that Legolas' life depended upon their speed. She had been glad for his silent submission, and dawn had come without incident. As the day wore, though, she had grown increasingly weary. Her mind slowed with exhaustion and panic, and her form ached mercilessly from the strain of travel. As much as she wished to deny, her mortal body was placing great limits upon her physically. She did not possess the endurance she once had, and she was ever forgetful of that. Thus, when Glorfindel suggested not long ago that they stop and rest the night, she had put up only a feeble argument. Her protector was right; she could do Legolas no good if she herself was exhausted and ill. The weather was malevolent, and their road had turned to a treacherous path of mud and uncertain land. Stopping, though she disliked the idea greatly, was the best course of action.

Glorfindel reined in Asfaloth ahead. She peered through the rain, watching as he turned the great white horse around in the mud. It splattered beneath the animal's hooves in a spray. She slow Hasufel's run to a trot and came to stand beside him. The Elf Lord raised his hand and pointed ahead and to the left. The woods were thick and the shadows great, but Arwen immediately detected what her companion thought was of interest. There was a dense copse of fir trees ahead, the sort that provided some protection against the rain. Perhaps there would be a patch of land dry enough to build to a fire… The thought made her shiver in anticipation. Heat to warm her hands and dry her clothes! She chastised herself for such wanton thoughts as she prodded Hasufel into following Asfaloth.

Glorfindel dismounted his horse when they reached the wooded area. He took the reins of the animal and drew Gwemegil, the silvery sword glistening as he tentatively entered between the trees. Arwen watched him silently, holding her breath, praying that the Elf Lord would deem this place safe enough. Taking a respite before seemed so utterly ludicrous and out of the question. How deeply she wished to rest now!

"It seems quiet," Glorfindel murmured as he reappeared to her right. He had dropped the leather reins of Asfaloth, but the horse obediently stood and waited so strong was its loyalty to the Elf. Still, Arwen could sense Glorfindel's hesitation. "Yet a shadow clings to this grove." His face was blank and his eyes narrowed, knowing things that were beyond Arwen. He was such a powerful and experienced warrior that she could not even think to doubt or question his premonitions.

"Shall we continue on?" she asked, praying her voice did not betray her wistful hopes. She held Legolas tighter, her gooseflesh rising. Though her senses were dulled by her choice to become mortal, she too felt a strange foreboding as if the trees were trying to warn her. Frustrated that she could not make sense of her anxiety, she watched Glorfindel with imploring eyes.

The Elf Lord tilted his head as if listening to a distant voice offering an answer, damp blond hair clinging to the frame of his face. Finally, his eyes grew focused. He slid his sword back into its scabbard. "No," he breathed quietly. He stepped forward and took Hasufel's reins from her, patting the horse's head reassuringly. The massive beast was riled, apprehensive about going further. "This is as good a place as any. All these woods reek of this danger, and I cannot make sense of it. I will keep watch as you sleep."

The idea eased Arwen. Glorfindel would not let any harm come to them as they took much needed respite. For some reason, this simple promise was enough to convince the hesitant Hasufel to carry them into the grove.

The rain dropped softly in the fir's canopies, singing a lulling melody. Arwen felt her eyelids stubbornly droop as Glorfindel led them into the copse, Asfaloth obediently trailing as if in protection of their rear. The Elf Lord chose a spot beneath two great, old trees, their wide branches serving to block the cold rain. He dropped the reins and opened his arms. She silently and carefully lowered Legolas into his embrace, releasing her strained arms from the uncomfortable position she had for days kept. Only her resolve had driven her to keep such a position. Then she dismounted, her body moving with none of her customary grace and elegance.

Her back ached terribly. Her shoulders throbbed with a dull hurt she had not often felt before. When her feet struck the ground, she thought for a moment she might fall from dizziness and stiffness. But she brushed aside the pains of her body. There were more pressing concerns.

Glorfindel laid Legolas gently upon a mat of pine needles. Arwen grabbed the supplies from her saddlebags before turning and dropping to kneel beside her fallen friend. Glorfindel had Legolas' hands wrapped in his own. "His skin is ice, but the fever consumes him." The prognosis hurt her inside, even though she had already suspected as much. The Elf Lord stood easily. If he was at all stiff or uncomfortable from the previous day's hard ride, it did not show in his languid motion. "I will gather kindling. The ground is good and dry here, and a fire will hopefully be enough to ward away the chill."

She nodded blankly, turning her attention to Legolas as Glorfindel softly walked away. Her heart quaked with fear and sorrow, worry speeding her pulse and bathing her in tension. She took his hand then, his long fingers curling limply over her own. His skin was extremely cold, though his pale face was hot to the touch. She had rarely seen Elves so afflicted, and knowing it was Legolas whose life lingered between Middle Earth and what lay beyond terrified her. He was deathly ill.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she pulled away from him the sodden cloak and blankets. His chest barely moved in breath, and she found herself staring at him, waiting in terror for each rasping wheeze, frightful that this next may be his last. She scolded herself and snapped out of her daze. Shaking fingers undid the draws of the tunic they had hastily dressed him in before leaving Gondor, and she pulled it free from his shoulder to expose the wound. Blood had seeped into the white bandage. The rough jostling from the ride had undoubtedly torn the injury a bit. The sight concerned and surprised Arwen greatly, even though she was unable to refute the fact she had feared as much. She would have to change the dressing.

Arwen worked then mindlessly, ages of experience guiding her hands in her craft. She pulled a roll of fresh linens and a pouch of herbs from her bag. There was little she could do to clean and disinfect without hot water, so she concentrated on removing the dirty bandages. Her thoughts were lost in a mire of emotion. Poor Legolas! She saw the signs of what he had endured upon him, old bruises and cuts covering his skin. Very infrequently had she seen Elves who had survived torture, for Orcs did not often allow their captives to escape. The pain he had undoubtedly underwent! She shuddered, abandoning her task to lift his hand and examine it. The narrow wrist was red and swollen, marked by rope burns and bruises. The knuckles were scraped and raw. The fingers were limp, without grip or strength… Were these truly the hands that had taken hers in a friendly dance, the powerful hands that had protected her love from harm, the gentle hands that had wiped away her tears? Arwen felt she might cry, her heart ached so for him!

A moment later she uncovered the wound. She grimaced. The injury was angry and inflamed. The stitched skin was caked in dried and wet blood. Clearly the wound was becoming septic, despite their best efforts. Arwen shook her head, sighing slowly and struggling with an emotional weariness. This would certainly complicate matters. An infection explained Legolas' fever, his deep unconsciousness. She wished something so tangible and simple could account for the curse she knew was killing her dear friend.

She had never seen anything like it before. It seemed somehow impossible, like a grotesque nightmare that existed in logic and truth for the extent of the dream and no longer. Yet there was much about Middle Earth she did not know, powers she did not understand. Aragorn had said Legolas had been in the sadistic and demented hands of Saruman the Wise. A wizard of such potent knowledge may have found a way to sever an Elf from the gifts of his kind…  _No! I cannot believe that!_ Yet everything about Legolas' condition confirmed her worst fears, that somehow, some way, Saruman had wielded a black magic so vile and disturbing against him as to crush his light. Tears filled her eyes. Legolas so loved Middle Earth. He flourished in the forest, blossomed under the stars, glowed with all the vitality of the sun. What a cruel torture to cut him from it!

Even though she could not be sure if Legolas' affliction was real, she knew for certain that the torment of this curse coupled with the anguish of his captivity had beaten him. His heart was lost in the sea of misery and despair she had briefly seen in his dull eyes. It hurt her now to think of it. She should have told Aragorn of the extent of Legolas' illness, but she had not been able to find it within herself to burden her lover more. He needed to think clearly, and knowing his dearest friend suffered so seriously would deprive him of concentration and resolve. But holding within her this terrible knowledge was sheer agony. How she had wanted Aragorn's comfort! She loved Legolas so dearly, and to see him so destroyed, so utterly beaten, devastated her.  _"Let me die,"_  he had implored her. He had no will left to live.

A great storm of insecurity and doubt assailed her. Perhaps she was wrong to go against Legolas' wishes. She knew what it was like to suddenly hear silence where the song of Middle Earth once colored her life. But her situation was surrounded in love and peace. If her dear friend wished to simply embrace mortality now, who was she to deny him that, especially after all he had done for her? But she dismissed these thoughts again, as she had frequently these past days. She loved Legolas like a brother, and she knew him in ways no one else did. He was strong! He was proud! Even if in this darkest hour he yearned for death, she knew that, deep inside where his spirit still struggled under the smothering hold of the black magic, he wished to live. She had to help him. There were but a few in Middle Earth who had the skill, knowledge, and power to potentially lift that terrible curse. She had to get Legolas to her father.

He was ailing like a mortal, and that terrified her. It was as if she could feel the feeble flame of his life wavering in a cold breath. The needling voice of her pessimism was sneering and harsh. She felt foolish having taken this dangerous quest on herself. How could she rush Legolas to Rivendell where he might receive the healing that would save his life when she herself was worn and exhausted after only two days? Rivendell was so far away, and she was so very tired.

There came the sound of light footfalls and she turned, startled. Her senses were not what they used to be. She calmed her racing heart when she saw only Glorfindel. The Elf Lord's arms were filled with kindling. "These were the driest I could find," he explained simply. His concerned eyes indicated that he had not missed her awkward jump of surprise. Arwen could only smile weakly and nod, finding her voice lost and her body tingling.

After this they did not speak. Glorfindel had a fire burning in a matter of moments, the blaze crackling on the pine needles. From the packs on Asfaloth the Elf Lord produced a pot, a flask of water, and a quilt. They set water to boil. Glorfindel helped her move Legolas closer to the fire, hoping that the heat would do the archer well. Arwen set about bathing the wound, conscientiously cleaning the blood away. When the water boiled, she broke herbs and made a broth. Instinct guided her hands, her mind a haze of turmoil and exhaustion.

While the medicine cooled, she split more leaves and spread the sticky juices over the inflamed laceration. Glorfindel watched her work. She sensed his worry as though it were a tangible force slamming against her. The rain spoke a gentle conversation in their stead. She knew he meant well by his care for her, but she was afraid of his insistences. Her life was not at stake.

"You should eat," he reminded her gently.

She shook her head slowly, fumbling for the bandages. "Help me raise him," she whispered. Glorfindel quickly complied, kneeling behind Legolas. He braced his arms under him and tenderly lifted, supporting their injured friend. Arwen began to wrap the wound again.

The silence came once more. Glorfindel was an Elf of great experience and intuition, so he did not press her. He seemed to sense her guilt, her fear, her pain. They had known each other for so long that he understood her need to simply act and not speak. He was such a good friend.

They laid Legolas to the ground again. Glorfindel stood then as she took the blanket. He clasped her shoulder firmly. "Try to sleep," he said quietly. His tone was so soothing that her exhaustion was abruptly a great burden. She reached up and squeezed his strong hand, her gratitude quiet but understood. Glorfindel released her and stepped to the edge of the groove. She watched him pat Asfaloth and Hasufel compassionately. Then he folded his arms over his chest and stood tall with his back to them, eyes forward in a protective watch of their small camp. A silent and steadfast sentinel. How grateful she was for his companionship!

She returned her attention to Legolas. He remained still, unmoving. "Legolas," she said softly, patting his cheek gently. The heat of his skin repulsed her, but she forced the mettle of a healer to bolster her resolve. "Legolas, please. You must wake for a moment."

Much to her surprise, her friend's eyelids fluttered. She had not expected rousing him to be so easy! Her heart warmed in relief. "That is it, my dear friend. Open your eyes and look at me!" Legolas moaned softly in struggling to regain consciousness. She waited expectantly, her hand coming to stroke his cheek caringly.

Finally he seemed aware enough of his surroundings to attempt to speak. Dry, cracked lips moved, but no sound came from him. Dull blue eyes so hazy with delirium and pain focused upon her. However, there was no glint of recognition in those lost orbs. "Stay still, Legolas," she ordered quietly, forcing a reassuring smile to her face.

"Where… where am I?" he wheezed, his voice no more than a strained whisper. His face was a picture of fear and loss.

She stroked the hair from his brow tenderly. "Shh, Legolas. You are safe. We are merely resting the night," she declared. She lifted the cup with the steaming broth inside. "You must drink this."

"No…"

Her soul quaked in agonized sorrow. "Please, you must. Your wound has turned septic. You are very ill!" She tried to keep the panic from her tone. "I must lower your fever."

Legolas drew a sobbing breath. "Do not take me home!" he gasped. Tears slid from his eyes like raindrops from the cloudy sky. "Please! Do not take me there!"

But he could say no more, for Arwen had lifted his head and tipped the cup to his lips. Slowly she poured the liquid into his mouth, and he was too weak to struggle. He coughed, the broth dribbling from his lips, but to her satisfaction he drank most of it. When she pulled the cup away, he collapsed in a fit of coughing and weeping.

"Have hope, Legolas," she said, smoothing back his hair. "We will get you to Rivendell." She drew the blanket over him, tucking it around his body. Then she wrapped her arms around him for comfort and warmth. He shuddered, his soulless eyes looking blankly above, searching for a peace that she would not give him. "We will get you to my father. He will help you!" she promised.

He said nothing, his raspy breath so loud. She pressed her lips to his forehead and pulled the blanket tighter around them. The shadows were deep and dark, the light of the flickering fire barely holding back the cold, wet night. "I will not let you die," she whispered. The silence became overbearing, heavy upon her heart. She watched as his eyes slipped shut again, and she gently stroked his cheek. Without another thought, she softly began to sing. It was an ancient Quenya lullaby, one that her mother often sang to her when she had been upset. If she could give Legolas strength through her love, if she could ease his pain and despair enough to return to him the will to live, then she would do all she could.

The sweet, serene melody filled the grove. But it did not keep the nightmares at bay.

* * *

He was trapped in that void, that prison of emptiness. It was so dark, so very black, for no light could pierce the walls. The sun would never find him here. It would never reach him to rip the protective shroud from him and uncover the disgusting truth. The blinding power of its illumination would never make him see!

So he laid in the darkness, comforted by its oblivion. He did not feel. He did not know. His memories were a mess of disjointed pain and anger, and he could make little sense of who he was or how he had come to be in such a state. Somehow he was certain he should feel rage at all that had been done to him, at the injustice fed to him in return for his sacrifices. But the black was too lulling, and thinking brought him only more pain. He was too weak to fight anymore.

The curse was eating his soul, devouring his light and leaving a dying husk in which no spirit could survive. The parts of him that had eagerly succumbed to its numbing embrace, the parts that were riddled with hurt and weary with anguish, welcomed death. Still, something inside him continued to struggle. It cried out his frustrated misery. It fought against the oblivion, pleading for help. He knew what this was. It was his love. It was his defiance. These were the things that had driven him through Saruman's tortures, that had given him the strength to fight, that had pushed him to keep his promises. He was a prince! He was an Elf! He was Legolas, son of Thranduil! He could not give in!

 _You are weak. You are nothing._ These were the hurtful, hateful things the curse manipulated his mind into saying.  _Die now, and spare yourself the shame at what you have become! Spare your father! Do not let them drag you into the light!_ A coward in the darkness! The terrible premonition came true! He screamed his despair, but his voice was soundless. There was no one to hear him, anyway.

He lingered in the void, his life growing weaker and weaker. Death would come swiftly and surely; he felt its cold claws dig into his soul and pull it from his body. The darkness swirled and consumed. The feeble cries of his love went unheard as he sank deeper into the embrace of the shadow. The prison was sealed tightly. It was as though he stood upon a narrow precipice, and the ground continued to recede beneath his feet. This was the terrible curse, the dark stain of hatred upon him, the black magic strangling his light. He was too weak to stop it! He had loved and had been tortured. He had defied and had been crushed. These foolish vulnerabilities! They only heightened his suffering! It would not happen this time. As the ground fled below him, he did not run or scramble or desperately search for a way to save himself. He did not try to escape the cell. He would drown in death.

Silence. Unending. Perfectly quiet. If not for the weeping of his soul, it was a peaceful end.

Then he heard distant words, felt a calming presence. It seemed so very familiar, so close to him. Trapped in his cell, he was lethargic and complacent, so he was able to ignore their call at first. But his restless heart, in a last desperate attempt to regain his sanity and his soul, pushed him from the daze. Such a sweet voice singing! It was slow to reach him, but when it did, it awakened in him something he thought long dead. The melody caressed to life the fire of his spirit, his need to survive, his love and defiance.

His will.

A speck of light penetrated the void and entered the cell. It twinkled feebly, as though it at any moment might go out. Yet it remained steadfast. The Evenstar.

But the shadow did not easily allow him to flee. The curse smothered him tightly, strengthening its grip upon his mind and body. Desperation filled his heart as it clung to that distant song. Death was too strong an opponent! He was grievously injured! His body was broken and bleeding! He felt then, sensation slowly returning to his numbed self. The pain! Ai, the pain! The fever and the fear…  _Do not struggle! Fall back into the shadow! It will not touch you there!_

For the first time in days he did not listen. The small foothold his will had regained upon him was enough to deny the want to sink back into the comforting, cursed oblivion. It was enough to ward away death. The parts of him that had already submitted screamed a furious and frustrated denial, but his heart ignored it.

Love. Defiance.

He listened to the melody and held tight to the last thread of his life.

* * *

Arwen slept poorly that night, fettered to awareness by worry and fear. Often during the night did she awake, uncomfortable and cold. The aches and pains of a mortal body still served to amaze and annoy her at times. Elves were not often affected by poor sleeping conditions when they did require rest. When finally she did lapse into a sleep deep enough to last, morning came far too quickly, and Glorfindel awoke her. She felt then as though she had never rested at all, and met the new day more exhausted.

They were quick to collect their things and continue on their way. In retrospect she realized that the source of her concerns during the night had been Legolas, and she had awoken repeatedly out of fear that he had passed from life. Each time she had felt her heart thunder in panic and cold sweat bathe her as she strained her ears for the sound of his breath, afraid to move lest she somehow jostle his weakening soul from his body. Each time she had sighed in uncontrollable relief, seeing his chest rise and fall, feeling warmth against her own form. She had held him all night, battling strange dreams and nightmares of her own. In the morning, when she woke him to drink more of the broth and inspected his wound again, she tried to convince herself that it was her nearness that kept him tethered to this world. Silly, she knew, but the thought heartened her.

Glorfindel helped her mount Hasufel and lifted into her arms their charge once more. He asked if she would prefer that he carry Legolas, but she politely refused. He gave no conflict, preoccupied and urgent in his movements, and Arwen immediately knew why. Though the rain had stopped and the dawn was warm with a bright sun, that strange air of danger was still strong in the air. The trees dripped rainwater and whispered a warning that she could not quite understand. It was enough to rile Glorfindel, though, and he rapidly mounted Asfaloth and charged on in their journey.

They rode in silence. The sound of the gallop and the wind was loud enough to hide her rushed breath and heart. The forest thinned as they approached the edge of the plains. Rohan stretched before them. They had made incredible time. With any luck, they would today cut across the wide fields and reach the gap. She knew not if Isengard would pose any threat to them. The idea unnerved her, so she decided to think about it when the time came. More pressing was a growing depression inside her. She had been quite the fool to think they might succeed! They were still so very far from Rivendell, and Legolas grew weaker each hour. And what could her father do for him, anyway? He was smitten by a very black power! Saruman the Wise, the most potent of all wizards, had cursed him to a mortal life! What could they do to rectify such a thing?

The morning soon wore to noon, and the fields of golden grass spread far and wide around them. The land was flat and ideal for traveling. To the west the mountains rose, blue in the midday haze. She forced all thoughts from her mind then, and concentrated on speed and strength. Her optimism stomped out her doubt. She had promised Aragorn she would let no harm come to Legolas. She would not fall back on her word!

Ahead, Glorfindel drew to a sudden stop. Confused and alarmed, Arwen pulled back upon Hasufel's reins, signaling the horse to halt its gallop. The Elf Lord turned around, his eyes distant. The wind picked up his gold spun hair as it blew by them gently. It smelled faintly of rot and fetid skin, of sweat and blood.

Glorfindel drew Gwemegil. The long blade glimmered in the sun. His face became stone, dark and tight with anger and concentration. Hasufel stepped skittishly, obviously upset. Arwen held tighter to Legolas' limp form. "They come," whispered Glorfindel. Her eyes widened. The hint of warning became a blaring scream.

Suddenly, from an adjacent line of trees, a volley of wicked, blade arrows descended upon them. Most struck the ground near the horses' feet, causing Hasufel to rear in shock. Arwen barely managed to grasp the reins tighter and steady herself.

"Go!" Glorfindel hollered. He ripped free from his thigh an arrow that had hit him and threw it to the ground.

Thunderstruck, Arwen shook her head. "I cannot leave you!"

The Elf Lord opened his mouth to speak further, but there was no time, for from the cover of the leafy trees came running a small brigade of goblins and Orcs. They were not overly numerous, but there were certainly enough of them to be a serious threat. Arwen watched in fear a moment, paralyzed by the horrible event. Then she shifted Legolas so that he sat up in the saddle in front of her, his head resting against her shoulder. From her sheath she drew her sword.

They were upon them in a matter of seconds. Snarling and snapping they attacked, streaming from the woods in a thin line with weapons raised. They were obviously rogues of sorts, too small and remote to be allied with Sauron. Undoubtedly they had smelled Legolas' blood and had tracked them. She cursed their foul luck!

The little demons crowded around her, bearing rotting teeth in bloodthirsty and gleeful howls. Their dirty, fetid bodies surrounded her, certainly sensing her weakness. Orcs had an uncanny ability to prey on the wounded and vulnerable; it was such a gruesome facet of their evil. She slashed at them with a grunt, gripping Legolas tightly. Her blade caught one in the face and it fell back squealing. Another was quick to take its place. Instinct guided her sword, Hasufel turning and jumping to avoid their enemies' grasps. She was by no means a warrior, but her brothers and father had trained her to be able enough with a blade to protect herself. She hoped their instruction would be enough!

Glorfindel gave an angry cry as he leapt from Asfaloth. She turned, marveling at his prowess at fighting, as he cut down one Orc in a fluid movement before stabbing another. A spear poked at Arwen, and she gasped, cursing herself for her momentary distraction. She swiped the weapon away with her own, reaching around in the saddle. They were so many! Hasufel neighed angrily, kicking at their assailants. One fell back, its neck broken.

Then there came a low chanting in ancient Elvish. The wind grew powerful, whipping about her, tearing her hair free from its pins. She pulled her horse around in time to see Glorfindel raise his arms, his eyes empty. The words he muttered crackled with power as he invoked an elemental spirit. As though a tangible force, the tempest shoved at the land, the roar of the wind deafening. It passed through her with but a cold brush. For their attackers, it became an invisible battering ram, and it crashed into them with brutal force. They screamed and yelled as they were flung bodily back, slamming roughly into the grass. The wind died as quickly as it came.

This did not stop them, however. Groaning and growling, those not seriously injured rose again, more infuriated than before. Arwen gritted her teeth, clenching her sword tighter. More shots careened from the trees. They buried themselves in the ground before Hasufel's feet. She shook her head. They would not touch Legolas! She would die first!

A roar of wind swept across her again, tearing the grass up. She watched as the monsters stopped their charge. One released a terrified cry, and the others soon after followed. Their yellow eyes grew wide in horror. Then they dropped their weapons in panic. Much to Arwen's surprise, they turned and ran quickly in a frightened retreat, disappearing into the trees.

She could only stare blankly at the woods. Why had they suddenly abandoned their attack? Glorfindel's spell had hardly fazed them before!

Arwen ripped around when she heard a loud flutter of flapping wings. Behind them landed a great eagle. He was a magnificent bird of dark brown feathers and piercing yellow eyes. He stood tall, tucking massive wings to his side. Clearly, he had scared the Orcs into retreat and rightly so, for he gave a great shriek that rocked the land beneath them. Huge talons ripped into the ground. He was a majestic animal that struck awe into the hearts of all that beheld him. She recognized the grand creature immediately. He was Gwaihir the Windlord, king of the eagles. An amazing sight!

Glorfindel lowered his blade, a trickle of blood dripping down the leg of his pants. Yet he did not limp as he stepped closer, lowering his head in a polite bow. Asfaloth whinnied, following him obediently. "My Lord," he said, his voice steady and calm. He was not obviously nonplussed over Gwaihir's appearance, acting as though he had expected it. "A timely arrival, if any!"

"Indeed," rumbled Gwaihir, ruffling his feathers as he stood. He towered over Arwen, and Hasufel was quite a large horse. "I received a message yesterday from Gandalf the White. He requested that I find you and speed you to Rivendell. His plea seemed urgent, and urgency from Gandalf is not to be taken lightly!"

Glorfindel nodded. "We bear an injured Elf," he explained, "the youngest of King Thranduil's sons and one of the Nine Walkers. He is badly wounded and in need of the care of Lord Elrond."

"Then I will waste no time with unnecessary talk, save this: the One Ring has been destroyed."

Arwen felt her heart stop. Could this wondrous tale be true? She felt unable to breathe, so taken was she with astonishment. Could Frodo Baggins have succeeded in his quest?

A look of amazement passed over Glorfindel's stoic face. Then the Elf Lord raised an eyebrow and shared with her a controlled look of joy. "That is wonderful news! You are certain of it?"

The eagle seemed to smile, if birds could do such a thing. "Quite, though I at first thought it a falsehood. Great disarray spreads from Mordor. It can only signify that Sauron has fallen."

Elation spread from Arwen's core. For a moment, she could forget her pain and fear. The weight in her arms was gone, and the burden was removed from her heart. Oh, joyous day! The sun suddenly seemed bright and warm, and anything was possible. Despite all they had suffered, all they had lost, they had achieved a victory for all that was good and pure! She wished fervently that she could share this moment with Aragorn, that she could see the euphoria in his beautiful eyes and know that they, all of them, had together done an amazing thing! She imagined his smile, his eyes twinkling with mirth at the righting of the crimes of his ancestors. His clean, musky scent filled her, his strong, warm arms surrounded her… So vivid was this daydream! She thought she could feel herself lay her cheek against his chest and hear his heart beat, strong and proud.

She realized then that such a thought was silly and premature, and she could not be so selfish. Again she felt the weight of Legolas in her embrace and the burden of his torment upon her spirit. There was much yet for which she must fight!

Weary but determined, she looked to their savior. "Come, daughter of Elrond! I will take you to safety!" Gwaihir announced, his deep voice filled with gentle insistence.

A moment of hesitation crawled within her, and she looked to Glorfindel. The Elf Lord took Hasufel's reins. "Go, my little star. Save him. He has done too much to win this day to not see it." Arwen felt tears burn in her eyes, and she looked away, embarrassed at the display. She was simply too worn and wrought with conflicting emotion to control herself. Glorfindel of course did not fault her, but only smiled reassuringly. "I will find my way home!"

His words were filled with such promise and comfort that it finalized the decision. Carefully she offered Legolas to Glorfindel, and the other held the fallen archer while she dismounted Hasufel. She returned her sword to her scabbard and stepped to the eagle. Gwaihir lowered his massive neck. Stiffly she climbed upon his shoulder, his feathers so soft and strong beneath her hands. Once she was seated securely, Glorfindel lifted Legolas again into her arms. "Be well," he whispered, grasping her hand. He lifted it to his mouth and planted a light kiss upon it. "Do not fret. Even the darkest of nights still see a dawn!" Then he released her and stepped back.

His words encouraged her. She smiled weakly. Gwaihir then grumbled, "Hold tight to him and to me. I cannot guarantee a steady ride, and it would be most unfortunate if either of you should fall." Then, giving her barely enough time to grasp Legolas close to herself and take hold of his neck firmly, the massive eagle king unfolded his wings. These he flapped twice, as if to stretch them, before lifting off the ground with his powerful legs. Arwen gasped at the marvelous sensation.

They tore through the clouds at remarkable speeds, the white wisps floating past her like beautiful arms seeking to hold her. Bright blue was all around; they were so very high! The wind was cold and nipped at her nose and ears, but she could not afford a free hand to draw up her hood. In stead, she lowered her eyes.

Legolas remained still, his face sallow and sunken. There was no light in his face, no color in his cheeks. His eyelids were sealed, as if to protect him from the horrors of the world. Mortality clung to him like a shroud of death. She tensed the arm that encircled his upper body, dreading what had happened and what still might. Would this all be for naught? Time might beat her yet! Tucking him close to her warmth, to her heart, she closed her eyes and silently willed that he live, that the curse release him. In her mind's eye she imagined that they flew over a great sea of black, soaring over a mire deep with death and disease, running from the magic that had stole his light and now greedily sought his life. Legolas dangled over it, secured to the light of the sun above by only her hand. Her grip was strong and sure.

_Hold tight to me, dear Legolas. I will never let you fall!_

She would fight, even if he would not. She would resist this terrible fate!

They sped towards Rivendell, this last vow strength enough for them both.

* * *

The Elven city was deep in slumber by the time they reached it. By Arwen's panicked guess it was past midnight, the stars bright and sparkling above in a canopy of peaceful twinkling. They landed upon a terrace of her father's house, and the guards stationed upon it were jolted into full awareness by the unexpected and unusual sight. She quickly ordered a litter brought and her father summoned. As the Elves rushed to do as she asked, Gwaihir helped her down cautiously. His heart, she knew, was bigger than she could fathom.

She was not strong enough carry Legolas, especially as exhausted as she was now, so she simply knelt, her dear friend tucked into her arms once more. She reached up to fondly stroke the eagle king's neck. "You have saved us," she declared softly, her voice wavering in emotion. "I cannot ever find the words to thank you for what you have done!"

The bird cooed fondly under her touch and then rumbled, "Think nothing of it, daughter of Elrond. Mirkwood has done much for Middle Earth in these days past. It is but a little thing to return its son."

"I am sure the House of Thranduil will forever be indebted to you!"

Gwaihir blinked, and she saw her reflection in his large eyes. "I must be off now," he stated simply. "Though the Ring is destroyed, there is evil yet in Middle Earth and I cannot long be apart from my people. Good night to you, my Lady." A fierce wind brushed over her then as the eagle flapped his wings. Moments later, he was up in the air, flying quickly away. She followed him for a moment until the shadows consumed his frame and she could no longer discern his wings from the sky nor his eyes from the stars.

Almost immediately after a flurry of activity burst onto the terrace. At its lead were her brothers, Elrohir and Elladan. They were twins and quite inseparable, their likeness to their father remarkable. Elladan was the first to reach her, surprise written across his youthful face. "Sister," he gasped, "how have you come back to us? Such a blessing that you return unharmed, though shrouded in mystery!" Behind him came the guards with the gurney. Lights slowly came to life in the palace, spreading golden illumination into the still and peaceful night.

Arwen shook her head. "There is no time to explain now. Help me, please," she gasped. The last of her strength was coming to her, filling her limbs with sudden energy as she struggled to lift her burden.

The cloak fell away from Legolas' bruised face as Elladan received him from his sister. The Elf shook his head numbly, shock burning in his eyes. "But this is-"

"Yes," Arwen interrupted, pulling herself up. Adrenaline churned within her, making light-headed, and she nearly stumbled. Elrohir, forever concerned with others, was quick to steady her. The flight had certainly disoriented her! "He has been wounded badly. He needs Father's attention immediately!"

Elrohir took her arm as they settled Legolas into the litter. Then they were rushing inside the palace. Familiar places were a blur as they moved rapidly to Elrond's chambers. It was clear from Legolas' fading breath that there was little time left. Arwen tried to ignore the dark aura reaching from her dear friend like a hand in a caress, but she could not, and it left her shuddering. The other Elves felt it as well, for they were silent in urgent fear, reluctant to even so much as look at the fallen archer. The curse was growing stronger!  _Please let Father know how to help him!_

Finally, after long and hard days of travel, she reached her destination.

Lord Elrond wrapped his robe tightly around himself, concealing his bedclothes, as he exited his chambers. Upon seeing Arwen, his firm face fractured in a mixture of confusion, fear, and joy. "Daughter," he whispered, his lips barely moving. Noticing her ragged condition, he reached forward, his eyes betraying intense concern. It felt so good to have her father near again! "Are you well?"

"It is not I, Father, who is in need of your skills." She took his hand and pulled him forward, to the side of the litter.

Even in the meager light of the corridor candles, she could see Elrond's face become pale and drawn at the sight of Legolas. The Half-Elf shook his head numbly, his eyes clouded in a great many emotions that she could not discern. The moment lasted indefinitely, she regarding her father with teary, wistful eyes, and he analyzing the still form of Legolas with a gaze borne from worry and shock. "What has been done to him?" he finally asked, his voice a whisper.

The words fled her lips rapidly, as though they had suddenly become a vicious poison. "I know not," she began to explain. "Saruman tortured him for many days. The wizard laid upon him a black magic so powerful that it has become a shadow that steals his light."

The lord grimaced as he laid his hand upon Legolas' brow. "He is mortal," Elrond declared quietly. A quiet gasp went through the crowd assembled. Arwen felt her hopes wither.

"But how can that be, Father?" Elladan questioned, his voice harsh with denial. He and Elrohir had for many years been friends with the youngest of Thranduil's sons. When Legolas had come to see her, they had oft joined him and Aragorn in games of hunting and tracking. His worry was plain upon his open face. "No force could do such a thing!"

Elrond did not answer, recovering from his shock. His strong fingers were quick to pull the dirty bandages from Legolas' wound. His face regained a stern, controlled expression. She did not like to think of the underlying implication of the instant. Wounds of the flesh were something with which he could easily contend. The curse was a problem he was perhaps helpless to remedy. "Bring him inside," Elrond said flatly. To another of his servants he asked that a hot bath be drawn with medicinal soaps. He also demanded that a broth be prepared containing a mixture of the same herbs Arwen had been using to lower Legolas' fever. Her father's commanding visage gave her strength. She knew that he would now spend all his strength in magic of a most ancient learning, giving just a piece of himself so that Legolas' body might heal. She did not doubt her father's wisdom or power, but she was weary enough to fear it was already too late.

They laid Legolas upon the bed, and Elrond pulled from him the cloak and blanket. As more candles were lit, the shadows fled, unveiling his dreadful condition. Arwen thought she had become accustomed to the horror of her friend's appearance, but as the servants and their lord removed Legolas' ripped clothing, it struck her anew with powerful pangs of anguish. The blood. The bruises. The cuts and scars. His boots were taken off, revealing a horrific sight. His feet had been wrapped in loose bandages that were now covered in dried red. When the servants unwound them, she winced. These were wounds the panic in Gondor had not permitted her to notice. His feet were messes of ripped skin and blood. Bones were cracked and poking through the flesh. How could he have walked upon them?

_Oh, Legolas…_

"Father," Arwen began, breaking from her pained reverie, "should we not send for King Thranduil?" Her voice faltered, but what she meant was understood. Legolas required his father's love. He needed his father's understanding to heal his fractured soul.

Elrond knew this, and his face was torn. "We cannot," he finally submitted. "Thranduil alone defends his kingdom. None of his sons are at court. I cannot put such a choice upon him." At seeing his daughter's downcast expression, Elrond's grim face adopted a softer look, the sort he always offered his children when they were distraught. He understood her so well. "I know you fear for his spirit. Time can heal such a wound. We must first care for his body."

Releasing a slow sigh, she nodded. She watched as her father once more laid his palm across Legolas' brow. "The bath is nearly ready, my Lord," one of the servants declared.

"Go now, my dear, and take some rest," Elrond ordered gently. The look in his eyes was sympathetic but vehement.

Arwen stepped back as they lifted Legolas from the bed, his thin, battered body wrapped in a sheet. Normally she would not think to question, but her heart was demanding action of her weary body. She could not leave Legolas! "Father, please, I can be of use to you here."

Elrond stepped to her swiftly. In the candlelight, she saw the firm glint in his eyes. In them as well was his love for her. He took her hands, his large and powerful. "You have already done much to help him in bringing him to me. I promise you that I will save his life. Now, please. Rest. I will need all my concentration to bring Prince Legolas back to our world, and it would much ease me to know that you sleep soundly."

Tears stung her eyes. How could she have been so selfish? She was unable to nod before her father rushed away, speaking softly to his assistants. The last of her strength fled her in a weary sigh. She stepped back, watching the flurry of activity with agony grinding inside her. Numb with her despair, she turned, glancing one last time over her shoulder. Elrond was holding his patient's head steady. Legolas' thick, blond hair fell over the sides of the porcelain tub as the servants set about washing the blood and dirt ingrained into his skin. Tendrils of steam rose from the water, reaching up into the beams of moonlight streaming through the window like wisps of his tired soul that were straining for love and help. She wished so strongly then that she might do something to help him. Yet, as much as she wanted to deny it, she knew she could do nothing more.

At the doorway, Elrohir took her arm. She stumbled into his warm embrace, her legs suddenly unable to carry her. She could not see or think straight. Elladan stood beside them, his face sympathetic. The tears came unbidden as her brothers escorted her from their father's chambers. The pain she held inside, the very same hurt that had festered within since the assembly in Lothlórien, was too heavy and too sharp to contain any longer. What could she do now but cry?

She collapsed into Elrohir's arms, sobbing piteously. The secret within her burned. She kept it inside her no longer. "He wanted to die," she moaned into her brother's shoulder. Elrohir wrapped her into his embrace, uncertainly glancing to his twin. "That is what he wanted, and I denied him it!"

The pain poured forth. The admission did little to relieve it, and she sank into the despair. The guilt and fear left her heart in soft weeping. Had she not been so riled, so completely distressed, she would have been ashamed at her behavior before her brothers. As it was, she only cried, grateful for Elrohir's arms and Elladan's hand upon her head. They said nothing, allowing her this release.

Not long after, when there were no tears left, her weariness caught up with her. Eyes burning with dryness slowly closed, and she lapsed into an exhausted slumber. Vaguely, she knew she was being moved. She felt something soft and cool and it smelled of flowers and fresh air. Her room, her bed.

Dreams came, dreams that were not made of fear and hurt. There was warmth and compassion. In her deep sleep, she stood in the gardens of Rivendell, sun streaming from the perfect sky, the air laden with the aroma of flowers. She saw Legolas, smiling and laughing, glowing with the day. She saw Aragorn, jesting with his friend, exuding strength and pride. Her family. For the first time since her father's council, she slept without hint of warning or black tidings. She knew now that all would be well. They would be whole again. The shadow fled from her, leaving a quiet absolution that glowed in her dreams.

Love. The strength to defy. Somehow peace would come.


	29. A Week Since

A week passed. In it, Aratadarion understood little and felt less. A painful apathy concocted of a worn heart and beaten spirit had consumed him. Its numbing embrace was enough to ease the emptiness, though it did little to provide an absolution or make better his confused rage. Still, he lingered in those calming arms, content to live but do so in a world of his own making where nothing could touch him. The battle raged about him, but he was only a flimsy sapling bending in a violent breeze.

Twilight was fast approaching. Dusk spread over the battlefield, though in the failing light the carnage was not hidden. Aratadarion watched the shadows creep closer to the bloodstained wall. Though battered, the sturdy, ancient rocks had held strong against the assault. For days the Orcs had punished it for its endurance, charging relentlessly and violently. It seemed, though, that the old ramparts had somehow known of the great victory won for the free peoples of Middle Earth and they too had renewed hope enough to hold steady for the sake of the Last Alliance.

It was a strange thing, the Elf now mused in retrospect. First he had witnessed the Nazgûl in their hasty retreat. In the heat of the battle, time had stopped, and for the longest, queerest moment everything had been suspended. The incredulity had held every man and Elf in the tightest grasp as the Orcs had stood still. From the east came the greatest flash of light, so bright and piercing that all diverted their eyes. A soundless explosion had rocked the land. When Aratadarion had recovered enough to again pay heed to his senses, he knew immediately what had happened. The Ring had been destroyed. The Orcs seemed to have sensed this as well, for many raised their voices in shrieks of anger, confusion, and dismay. Chaos overcame them in that instant, and a portion of their forces had simply fled. An amazing thing indeed! Enough had chosen cowardly retreat over revenge or loyalty to significantly increase the Last Alliance's chance of victory.

Still, the terrible fight had continued for days. The monsters' hatred of men and Elves was enough, it had seemed, to fuel their ambitions. Without rest or repose, they slaughtered the forces of good, pummeling the feeble wall with their defeated master's rage powering their hearts. Triumph never came easily, especially when it determined the fate of so many. Holding tight to their position was essential, and for endless days and nights they had done just that with doubting hearts and silent fears. Aratadarion sensed the tense terror of the others, of his father's soldiers. Elves did not often suffer such panic, and it was unnerving to experience it so acutely. As time wore on and more had died, he began to wonder. Perhaps the Ringbearer had not been successful. Perhaps even that mattered not; if they lost here, Gondor would still be under siege. If Mirkwood's forces were obliterated, nothing would protect Thranduil's kingdom from the dark forces of Dol Guldur. The destruction of the Ring would mean little if they were to fall now!

These were the thoughts that had plagued him. Though Vardaithil spoke naught of it, he knew his brother had as well such doubts. But Vardaithil was ever the leader, and his anger over Astaldogald's loss had only further centered him upon his task. He never faltered or showed his weaknesses. When the time was most bleak and hopeless, he only ordered that the dead be pulled from the wall their positions filled. It became a cycle of sorts, a terrible pattern of death and despair. Aratadarion had to admire Vardaithil for his equanimity. The Elf prince had watched their forces dwindle, but had never expressed fear or doubt. Such strength! He had no doubt that it had only been Vardaithil's resolve that had carried them through the darkest nights.

Now another night was coming, the first in so long where there was no battle. The quiet seemed somehow out of place. In his mind he heard echoes of screams, of the weeping of dying people, the cries of battle and the twang of bowstrings singing together in a vile chorus. He stood on the hill that overlooked the field, watching numbly as Elves pulled their dead from the parapet. They had not had the time to perform proper rites during the furious fight, so those that had perished had been piled beneath the platform. Now they labored to honor those that had sacrificed their immortal life for the good of Middle Earth. Aratadarion closed his eyes as the pain welled up within him; it was strong enough to pierce the numbing veil shrouding his heart. So many dead. So many lost. It seemed so terribly fruitless!

A cool evening breeze pushed its way up the plain and struck him. In spite of himself, he shivered, though not from the cold. He wavered and felt he might be sick from the sadness within. It was a great day for their cause, and he knew he should have been ecstatic and elated. Towards the end, the shadow of doubt and terror lifted and hope returned. By some miracle, when the sun rose that morning, the Last Alliance had whittled down the attacking army considerably, the product of the week's resilience and dedication. Sauron's remaining forces were finally driven into a retreat, though they returned not long after for their last assault, but it had been a vain effort, for the allied forces of Rohan had finally arrived. With fresh archers upon the wall and supplies replenished, the last confrontation was easily won, and the few Orcs left alive drew back. It was as this battle for Gondor ended. The sunrise had soaked the field in blood.

Exhaustion riddled the Elf, but he thought it somehow disgraceful to sit in this moment. Across the field, the banners of Gondor flew high and proud. They waved in the wind. Beside them rose the colors of Rohan, gently swaying in the breeze. His father's colors were fewer in number and dull in the shadows. The plains were crowded with the injured and dead. Officers rushed about as stoic as possible in their tasks, decorum permitting little else. Aratadarion watched this all with a grotesque detachment, as though he were looking into a peculiar dream. As he did, he began to think. The week had done much to deaden the pain at Astaldogald's loss, but the Elf prince was sure that he would later acutely know his despair when exhaustion and relief could not shield him. He thought he should have been upset or at least concerned for Legolas, but he found he could not will himself to feel anything in this strange stupor. The apathy pleased him. He had always been a creature of emotion, and such sensation brought him familiar security. In this, the first true trauma of his existence beyond his mother's death, there could be no silly feelings. Nothing would again be as it was.

He wondered idly what he might do now. Return home, he supposed, to a kingdom cold and empty. He thought it unusual to have come through all this and not be excited to go back to his familiar, pleasant home. He loved Mirkwood with a silent ferocity that many did not see. Yet it was wrong to simply end this like that. It was home ripped and broken. It was not as it should be, and there was nothing that might restore it. The House of Thranduil was shattered by death and curse. Bile burned the back of his throat then and tears filled his eyes. The secrets he held within felt a poison eating at his heart. He wished he were stronger, braver, better suited to deal with all that had happened. He did not have Vardaithil's resolve. He did not have Astaldogald's fiery passion. He did not have Legolas' great strength. What was he to do but succumb?

The spiteful words he had shared with the heir of Isildur now tortured him with shame. They had been spoken in a heated moment of anger and grief, but he still felt that was no excuse. He tried to rationalize his guilt now if only in self-defense. It was perfectly logical to deny the pain of the heart for the sake of their victory. That was what he had done and what he had forced Aragorn to do. Had not such a sacrifice been necessary? Had they not finally triumphed? Maybe they had, but deep within, where the indifference could not penetrate, he felt undeniably defeated.  _A sacrifice, indeed! I sacrificed Legolas. I sacrificed Vardaithil's trust. I sacrificed my own soul._

The tears came, and he let them. It seemed so long since he cried, though he knew it had only been a week. A mere week since Astaldogald had died. It felt like forever, and in that lifetime he had changed in ways he found disturbing and cold. What was this hard tenacity that had allowed him to lie to Vardaithil about Legolas? Such a thing he had never before had. Perhaps it had been for the best; none could say for sure, least of all him whose mind was muddled by despair and exhaustion. He knew not what to make of it.  _What can you? You had but one quest given to you, and in that you failed!_ This as much was true. His father had levied upon him a task, simple in purpose but so very difficult in execution. Rescue Legolas from the shadow. Protect him.  _But I could not! I did not! I have no such mettle, Father!_ And Astaldogald, his beloved twin, was dead.

Reasons and excuses blurred, and none seemed adequate. Had he denied Vardaithil the truth to spare his brother the pain, or because he himself could not stand the fact of it? The fact that he failed in his father's task. The fact that Legolas was doomed to mortality if he even survived long enough. The fact that Astaldogald… He whimpered, refusing to raise his hands and wipe away the hot tears. They would be the scars for all he had done and failed to do.  _"There may indeed be consequences later for my lies, but I will gladly face them than sacrifice all for which we have fought."_  Never had he dreamed them to be so agonizing!

There was no battle now to distract him. There was nothing to alleviate this pain or to justify ignoring it. How could he have gone so long without feeling? The numb grasp upon his heart fell away then, leaving a soul bleeding and battered. Still, he was prisoner to its hold no longer. In that moment, he wondered how he had ever fallen so deep as to not feel. He was an Elf of song, perhaps meekest and weakest of his brothers, but he did have his own vigor. It was certainly the gift of his mother. She had not been an Elf of remarkable strength, but she loved like none other could. She brought beauty and peace to all she touched. Her patience and nobility were bright and powerful. She had been Thranduil's silent strength. She had always offered Vardaithil only the best of advice and encouragement. For her beloved twins, she had sung and laughed, had understood squabbles and listened to upsetting dreams. For Legolas, her youngest and brightest, she had been the protector, doting upon the child she had named for the beauty of Mirkwood's trees. How it would have killed her to see her sons act so violently and hatefully towards each other! How it would have broke her heart to know of his lies!

He could bear this no more. This wall he had built around himself would now come down. He would betray his identity with apathy no longer.

There came light footsteps, so soft that few other than an Elf could discern them. Aratadarion did not turn, knowing who it was that approached.

Vardaithil did speak for a moment. Aratadarion drew a deep breath to compose himself as the silence grew laden with weary sadness. The two stood, unsure of how to act, uncertain of what to say. The younger Elf felt tense with turmoil as the emptiness stretched on infinitely. There was no better time to say what he wished, and the pain was almost too much to handle. For some time he wondered what words he might use, planning the declaration, the tone of his voice. When he finally mustered enough bravado to do as he must, all the thoughts fell away and he could only mumble the truth. "Legolas… He is alive."

There was no immediate response, and Aratadarion was chained to the moment. He waited on bated breath for Vardaithil to react, but his older brother's shock must have been quite strong, for it was many moments before the other even breathed. The Elf prince grunted shortly. "You are mistaken, brother," he declared quietly.

Aratadarion gritted his teeth and forced himself to be strong. Vardaithil had always intimidated him somewhat, for the crown prince was so much their father's son. "It is no mistake, my Lord. I would not lie about this."

"But that is impossible!" Vardaithil turned then, forcing the meek Elf to meet his fiery gaze. Aratadarion nearly flinched under his brother's ire. His tenacity wavered, and for a moment he wanted to look away. But he would not. For the sake of their mother, he had to restore truth and dignity between them! Vardaithil's eyes grew distant with lethargic understanding.

"Brother," spoke Aratadarion gently, his voice empty and his eyes equally vacant, "I am sorry. I have lied to you about so many things, but I did so because I thought there to be no other way." The admission tasted terrible. "And now I must speak plainly… Though I fear I have not the strength to concede all that has happened."

Vardaithil afforded him a stony and steady gaze, and Aratadarion suddenly flushed with anxious embarrassment. But there was a glint in his eyes, a flash of understanding and compassion. Of sorrow borne together. It was enough to convince the meek Elf to finally speak, and he did so without any more thought. Once the words came, they would not stop. "We tried to do as Father asked, Vardaithil. But we were too late! We chased Saruman the Wise from Isengard to Cirith Ungol, but we could not undo the damage done to Legolas when we found him. The foul wizard… He made Legolas mortal."

"Silence!" Vardaithil suddenly roared. His eyes flashed, and in that moment he so resembled their father that Aratadarion was utterly taken aback. "I will hear no such nonsense! No Elf can be made mortal!"

But Aratadarion would not let his brother's frustrated rage dissuade him. He spoke calmly and quietly. "You know as well as I that I say only the truth, brother. Please, believe me. Legolas lives in a world of shadow. Saruman demeaned and tortured him for many days, and then levied upon him a curse of the most cunning magic." Tears filled Aratadarion's eyes. "I did not want to believe it myself. Ai, Vardaithil! He has been so viciously destroyed…"

He could say nothing more, overwrought by emotion. Vardaithil looked away after a moment, returning his clouded gaze to the tired troops on the field. The gentle wind rustled the grass leaves. Finally, the crown prince murmured, his voice clenched and pained, "It must be a lie…"

Aratadarion struggled to breathe around the lump in his throat. Could he say this? Explaining Astaldogald's insane jealousy and violence was akin to defaming himself! They were twins, brothers and friends in the strictest sense, loyal beyond any doubt. He still loved Astaldogald so very much and he did not know if he had the strength to personally discredit his dead twin! An observation his mother had made in jest so many years back, before Legolas was born, now peppered his stricken mind.  _"My dear twins… you are a strange pair! Never have two been so close as to share a heart, a soul. I dare say without the other, one would be quite lost!"_  His heart broke. He idly wondered how many times it might shatter before it could never be repaired. The silence within him where Astaldogald's spirit once powerfully sang stabbed him, and he nearly doubled over. How this hurt!

Through the turmoil, he heard himself speak. "Legolas was wounded. He needed the care of Elvish healing. Elessar had him returned to Rivendell."

"This is madness!" his brother roared. "There is a silence so deep within me that it sunders my heart and mind, Aratadarion. This a silence made of death, of a spirit lost to me in an endless night… Legolas is gone!"

Sudden anger fueled Aratadarion at his brother's selfish insistences. He saw through Vardaithil's denial clearly enough, for it was borne of the same terror, of the same prejudice, as Astaldogald's had been. "It is you who suffers a madness now, brother, and I do not say this to offend or demean. I have seen this craze turn kin upon kin. I have seen it murder, rob, and torture. Break free of it now, please, I beg of you!"

Vardaithil's face broke in frustrated anger. "Speak clearly, young one, for my mood already is foul and I wish for nothing more than rest and retreat." The stern visage of their father had quickly reclaimed his face and Aratadarion grew frustrated. It was a defense mechanism he found particularly infuriating, for both Astaldogald and Vardaithil had learned it quite well from their father and he had never mastered its command. It was an arrogant sort of denial, a way of dismissing a matter that was too painful or undesirable. Aratadarion realized it was only a show of weakness, not strength.

His frustration bolstered his determination. "You do not understand, Vardaithil. So much has happened these weeks past to break the ties between us, and it was of our making. Had we not for so many years pushed Legolas away, had we not insulted him for his views, for his friendship with Elessar-"

"Elessar betrayed him!"

Aratadarion felt the rage come again, the same that had split him from Astaldogald, that had driven him to protect Legolas. "Elessar did nothing of the sort!" He gave a short laugh of incredible understanding. "I see this now in hindsight! I see it all and understand so very well! The forming of the Fellowship, Legolas' capture and torture, even this foul curse upon him… All of this was merely a catalyst! Do you not see, my brother?" He shook his head sadly. It made such terrible sense. His mind fled him as he explained. "For thousands of years this indifference and hate festered in our Father's House, and now it is repaid to us in kind!"

Vardaithil was ashen as Aratadarion became silent, the meek Elf panting. His cheeks glistened bright with tears. The crown prince shook his head in confusion. It must have been an unusual sight to see an Elf typically composed with quiet serenity to rant so desperately. Worry broke through Vardaithil's hard eyes. "Please, my brother, you are sick with grief and you know not what you say. Come, take some rest. We shall leave for home on the morrow and return to Father's side. Together we can properly mourn our brothers and find peace."

"No!" Aratadarion yelled, his eyes flashing with anger. "How naïve it is to think we can just go back to Mirkwood after all that has happened! It will not be the same! I cannot look Father in the eye and tell him I did all I could to succeed in the task he gave me!"

"It is not your fault, Aratadarion," Vardaithil said softly, shaking his head slowly. "The task was dangerous, and there was little you could do to save Legolas from a power so great and black as Saruman. His death is not your burden to carry." The crown prince sighed. "I know why you speak as you do, brother. I too wish that Legolas were alive and well. I would do anything I could to bring him back! Astaldogald, as well!" Vardaithil's tone turned melancholic and regretful. "I long to return home and find all of us once again seated about Father's table, engaged in banter before dinner… Ai, our family! How much we sacrificed for this pathetic cause!" Bitterness flashed in his eyes. "Nay, there is no blood on your hands."

"Stop!" cried Aratadarion. He stared at his hands, the same hands that had done nothing to stop Astaldogald from stabbing Legolas or to stop Aragorn from killing Astaldogald. They seemed so red and chapped from battle, worn and battered. Bloody. He clenched them into fists and turned to his brother. "Stop your hate! It has grown from a prejudice to a flaming rage, and it will consume you! It consumed Astaldogald and turned him from a loving brother to a killing monster!"

Vardaithil's gaze shattered in a shocked fury. But he had no time to speak, for Aratadarion's fury drove him like a creature possessed. "Nay, Vardaithil, we cannot return to the past. We cannot undo these mistakes! I have seen a nightmare unfold before me… I have seen it and I stood by, bound by a foolish promise and weak with my own fear and doubt! I did nothing as Legolas and Astaldogald fought! The culmination of hundreds of years of anger and spite… and I never did anything to stop it!"

"They…" Vardaithil's voice trailed off and he faltered. Then the crown prince frowned. "Ai, Elbereth…"

Aratadarion dug his nails into his palm until he felt warm blood drip through his fingers. "Would you hate your own kin, Vardaithil? Would you despise the creature Legolas has become? Would you wish death upon him for his descent?" Vardaithil did not answer, pale and lost. He appeared almost weak and fragile as his frantic brother bombarded him with the terrible information. "For so long this prejudice has festered, and it meant so little when it applied to a distant menace. Then Legolas met Aragorn, and the hate gained itself a convenient target. The first casualty, you see. It grew within Father, within you, within Astaldogald… within me. And Legolas responded with a hate of his own, a spiteful, bitter contempt for us because we refused to understand. You understand, do you not? He became rebellious, looking elsewhere for acceptance… and he found it with Aragorn and the House of Elrond. With the very Fellowship that took him to his downfall! And then… My heart is straining for absolution, but there is nothing!" His fist shook in a rage he had never before felt so strongly, so acutely. "Saruman defiled our little brother, Vardaithil. He is but a shadow of himself. And Astaldogald… He would have rather seen Legolas dead than turned a mere mortal!"

The Elf stopped then, drawing a deep breath. Abruptly, he felt numb and exhausted, and he looked up to the sky overhead. The setting sun spread its shadows with great fervor, the dusky dark reaching from the horizon to enclose them. He felt their cold fingertips touch his soul, chilling him. It began to make an eerie sense, as if the final pieces of the horrid puzzle were falling into place. The truth came to him, and he had no choice but to accept it. All that had happened had done so because he had allowed it to happen. His indecision had created decision. His inaction produced action. And when he had finally made his choice, when he had finally forced himself to see Astaldogald's madness, it had been too late to stop the inevitable chain of events that had unfolded. The years of bitterness and disrespect, the endless arguments and festering anger… it had exploded all around him. The wall that had grown between himself and his twin had sealed their fate. Divided from one another, Astaldogald had fallen. He had been lost. A horrible truth! It was his own fault his twin had died.

"Perhaps," he whispered to the wind, "this is the penance for a family built upon arrogance and prejudice."

Vardaithil grew cross again, though the crown prince made a solid effort to keep his irritation from reaching his voice. "What do you mean?"

His tears were bitter and cold. "We have long despised mortals, and now our own has become one. A fitting punishment, I suppose." He was surprised by the calm, matter-of-fact tone he heard in his own voice. "We all deserve no less. We covet immortality, the House of Oropher. We covet it as though it is a gift of superiority. And now… Astaldogald is dead, and Legolas will die by fate's cruel hand."

Vardaithil let his hand fall to Aratadarion's shoulder. "Father taught us what he has to protect us. You know that."

"That I do," murmured Aratadarion. "Yet it means so little now. It became a curse to our family. It has taken Legolas. It has murdered his spirit." He let out a slow breath.  _I did not mean for this to happen. I did not want to choose, my dear Astaldogald, between you and Legolas. Yet, by not coming to your aid, by casting you away, I am sure I drove you to commit your crimes._ To lose the love of one brother for the sake of a man was pain enough. To lose the affection of his own twin… Aratadarion felt tears in his eyes, tears of loss and pain, tears of understanding and relief. Tears for the hurt he had unwittingly done his closest friend. "Astaldogald tried to kill Legolas. I… I stopped him." He took a cleansing breath, feeling repentance in his words. The truth would not redeem him, he realized. He had sworn to his dying brother that he would end this fight. To do so, he would assume the ultimate guilt. He did not know if it was his to bear, or if he even could survive the rest of his life carrying this stain. But he knew there was no other way, and that somehow, this was his fault. The hate would never end unless he ended it. And if Vardaithil did not overcome his racism towards mortals, Legolas would never be healed.  _I will do this for you, Astaldogald. I will repay you for all your strength and compassion. I will honor you by offering Legolas the love you always wanted to give him._ This was perhaps the last step of his own tumultuous journey. "I killed Astaldogald, Vardaithil."

Silence. Aratadarion did not meet his eldest sibling's gaze, frightened of what he might find. He was surprised how easily the declaration left his lips, and how much the simple confession eased his burning heart. The meek Elf prince rather expected Vardaithil to shout or cry, to express shock or rage, to condemn him for the sin. In stead, his brother but released a long breath. Aratadarion felt the strength leave him as he looked to Vardaithil. His brother's stern, strong face was streaked with tears. "Brother?"

Vardaithil gave a short sobbing, breath. "Legolas is alive…" he whispered breathlessly. Something inside Aratadarion relaxed. His faith resurfaced, tentatively at first as it poked its gentle caress through the murk of guilt and sorrow. To trade one brother for another! Life was a strange fact, indeed! "Legolas… the grief from Astaldogald's sacrifice is lessened by the jubilation I feel inside!"

_Astaldogald's sacrifice…_

In a most unexpected gesture, Vardaithil turned to him and wrapped him in a tight embrace. Aratadarion nearly jumped in surprise, but he recovered quickly and sank into his brother's strong arms, folding his own around Vardaithil's form. Tears spilled from his eyes. "I am so very glad you are well…" whispered the crown prince. "Aratadarion, I am so very glad you are here!"

They said nothing more, content to hold each other as the sunset darkened the sky with purple and blues. Aratadarion closed his eyes, feeling for the first time in so very long that he had done what was needed. That  _he_  was needed. A part of his battered soul healed then, in the heat of his brother's embrace, the warm salty tears running from his eyes. The bond between them strengthened.

An evening star twinkled upon the horizon, shining upon him. He watched it wink with tired eyes and suddenly felt something he had not since leaving his father's court.

Hope.

* * *

"Pay me your attention now, young Hobbits." Gimli heard his voice grow rough and tight with irritation. He did not intend to sound so cross, but now was not the time for Merry and Pippin's frivolity. A peculiar mood had taken the two since arriving in Lórien, and though Gimli found their euphoria heartening, it was now becoming more a nuisance than a joy. There was still much to be done, even if the One Ring had been destroyed, and they could not afford a lapse in concentration. "This fight will be furious, and you must not let down your guard for even a moment!"

"When do you suppose Frodo and Sam will return, Master Dwarf?" inquired Pippin. The small creature's eyes twinkled with cheery merriment. Gimli's vexation was apparently lost to him, so taken he was with joy. "And to where? They wouldn't go back to Hobbiton without us!" The Hobbit was aghast with the idea.

"Shush, Pip! Can't you see there are more important things?" Merry snapped, though his tone was pinched by a happy excitement. He tried to keep his face hard, but there was no hiding the jolly shine in his eyes.

"Of course, I can! I'm just wondering, after all."

The bickering continued. Gimli felt Haldir sigh beside him, and the Dwarf had to struggle to keep a smile from climbing to his face. The whole forest of Lothlórien had adopted the same sort of conflicting mood of overwhelming elation and anxious trepidation. They had made their arrival a mere hour before, having driven hard from Gondor at a grueling pace fueled by only their determination to see the Golden Wood protected. A week had passed, each day seeming somehow longer than the last. Gimli had watched the Hobbits grow weary with traveling. Though tight-lipped and unwilling to admit it, both Merry and Pippin lost the will to do much else other than ride. Perhaps the gravity of the situation had finally taken its toll upon them, mutilating the last of their faith that somehow their Fellowship of nine would be restored. Sam and Frodo struggled alone to Mordor. Boromir had left them. Legolas was gone, dead most likely. Gandalf and Aragorn stood to weather the awesome threat facing Gondor. It seemed so very unlikely that they would ever again see any of them.

The Dwarf mused briefly on the strenuous journey. It had been quite surprising to see Haldir's quiet compassion surface. He would have surely expected the Elf to be a cold force, pushing them rapidly and without repose to their destination. If it were his glorious home at stake, he would have certainly waited for none in his race to save it! Yet Haldir had not expressed frustration or irritation when the Hobbits grew too weary to continue and they were forced to stop and make camp. He simply provided silent and steadfast encouragement, standing guard while they slept, refusing even Gimli a turn at watch. The Dwarf was undeniably amazed at the transformation he sensed in his Elvish comrade. Haldir had inexplicably become quite attached to them all, though if questioned Gimli was sure the Lórien Elf would deny it. His compassion was not as obvious or as bright as Legolas' had been, but it was definitely soothing and powerful. And as much as he himself perhaps wanted to dislike the notion, his begrudging respect of Haldir was blossoming into a tentative friendship.

They had reached Lórien earlier that day. The Golden Wood, which he remembered to be peaceful and quiet, had erupted into a controlled chaos. The Lady herself had greeted them, but her great aura of serenity and wisdom was marred by worry for her people. Her welcome was brief and formal, her eyes betraying nothing of the gravity of the situation. She as well seemed torn between a strange relief and a tense anxiety. Gimli absently touched the lock of her golden hair that she had given him, pressing it to his heart. He had sensed a change in her, a demure weariness and sadness creeping into her pale face. Though she was a creature of exquisite beauty and ageless wisdom, she appeared very old to him, burdened by much toil. His heart ached at her withering energy, though she admitted no sadness. Still, it was enough to unnerve and trouble him.  _Quiet your thoughts!_ came the chiding voice of his conscience.  _There is plenty to worry about without pondering matters over which you have no control!_

Elves rushed about, carrying weapons and armor for the battle that was about to begin. Presently they headed to the front lines, where the fighting was the strongest. From Gimli's understanding, the battle had commenced some time the day before. Their enemy consisted of rogue Orcs and goblins, whatever Uruk-hai remained from the assault on Isengard, and rebels from the hills surrounding Rohan. They were a motley crew if any, but Gimli supposed that greed produced the most unusual alliances. He had had little time to ponder how Wormtongue had possibly managed to arrange such a potent attack on the Golden Wood from afar, unsatisfied with the simple idea that the spies of evil were widespread and deep set. Still, he realized rather angrily, it was unlikely they would now ever learn the truth of it, and how or why were insignificant at this point at any rate.

He pulled himself back to the present. If the state of tension in this fair land was any indication, the war was, for the moment, at some sort of stalemate. The Elves of the Golden Wood, though few in number, were amazing warriors and cunning adversaries. The master archers had taken station in their great  _mallorn_  trees, firing a steady rain of sharp arrows upon the enemies as they advanced into their home woodlands. Lothlórien was a complicated maze of trunk and leaf, the paths through the thick forest hidden and intertwined. Gimli remembered his first entrance into these woods, guided only by the knowledge of Legolas and Aragorn. A strange tingle, which he had mistakenly taken to be evil, had prickled his skin and set him on edge. He knew now that to be only the unusual feeling of this place, one of secrecy and empathy strong enough to gently pierce ear and eye and flesh. He knew these foolish men and monsters would experience the same misguided dread when faced with the peculiar sensation. Some would probably run, too frightened of the powerful Elf-witch that lived among the ancient trees. Gimli smiled ruefully. Caras Galadhon was buried quite deep and accessing it would be monstrously difficult for those that remained. For now, these advantages were enough to keep the fight even, though their attackers outnumbered them tenfold.

They had to protect this wondrous land and all of its people at any cost!

His reverie broke, and Haldir's calm voice filled his ears. "Be still now," he said to the bickering Hobbits. Gimli narrowed his eyes. Ahead was a small battalion of Lórien Elves, dressed in shining plate and bearing sleek weapons. They stood stiff in their post, their eyes alertly directed forward. The sounds of distant fighting disturbed the timeless peace of the woods, screaming, shouting, and the clanking of metal piercing the cool air. These few Elves were the only ground defense Lothlórien could offer.

Merry and Pippin watched astounded, wide-eyed and pale. Feeling overtly protective, Gimli stood close to them and leaned on his axe. Though the Hobbits were adequate warriors, they were by no means fighters of the caliber needed in such a dangerous battle. Still, they had refused to stay in the security of Caras Galadhon. They claimed it was the least they could do, given that Sam and Frodo had done their part to save Middle Earth. It would be improper and otherwise traitorous to sit back and allow another to fight this battle in their place. Despite his reservations, Gimli was inclined to agree. However, doubt and dismay assailed him. From the Fellowship he maintained a certain responsibility for these two. Though they had all fought together to bring the Ring to Amon Hen, the two men, the Elf, the Istar, and the Dwarf had silently agreed that they would never allow any harm to come to their Halfling companions, each taken in his own way with the childlike innocence and naïveté of the kind. He did not know if he could ever face Aragorn again should anything happen to Merry and Pippin.

From the group of Elves approached one. He was tall and lithe of build, like most of his kind, but he bore a familiarity in his face that Gimli immediately placed. Long flaxen hair, paler than straw, framed a narrow, young face. Piercing eyes regarded them. "Brother," said the Elf to Haldir. He spoke in Westron out of consideration for the others; Gimli credited the Elf for this at least. "Praise the Valar for your arrival! We need your command now."

Haldir responded with a curt nod. "It much eases my heart to see you well, Rúmil." For a moment Gimli felt at odds watching their emotionless display. The stoicism of Lórien Elves still served to unnerve him, though he realized this reunion was not at all heartless. He watched Haldir's eyes and saw the unmasked relief.

Rúmil lowered his long blade and looked to his sibling's companions. His face grew perplexed. "I trust all went well with the son of Arathorn?" asked the Lórien warrior.

Haldir stiffened slightly; Gimli knew his comrade still harbored quite a bit of guilt for abandoning his charge. "I believe it did," replied the other, pausing in an attempt to rid his voice of doubt or shame. There was something that perhaps only Gimli perceived in his tone. Worry. Concern for those left behind in Gondor. But Haldir shook free from his thoughts a breath later. "Tell me, how fares our fight?"

If Rúmil was at all perturbed by the situation, it did not register on his placid face. "We lose ground. Our archers have done much to whittle down their forces, but I fear it is not enough. They return now to regroup. We will have to hold them here. If we are slain, nothing protects Caras Galadhon. Lord Celeborn has formed a perimeter about the city, but it will not be enough to repel an attack of this size."

Gimli grunted hotly, feeling anger run through his blood. He gripped the shaft of his great axe tightly. "Then we will defeat them here!" he declared loudly, watching the Elves turn their attention to him. Merry and Pippin nodded their assent enthusiastically.

Rúmil gave a small grin and nod. "A strange thing! I bid you welcome! For your aid here, you shall always be Elf-friend!" he declared, a jovial, grateful tone finding its way into his serious voice. "Alas, there will be time for gratitude later."

Haldir nodded and stepped forward. "Indeed," he said. He spoke softly to his brother then, whispering in Elvish. Gimli watched the exchange, a bit resentful of it, but said nothing. Now was simply not the time.

Ahead there was a great shout, and then the thunder of feet. From the thick wall of trees came many Elves clad in grays and greens. Most bore great bows of the sort Galadriel had given Legolas. Few were injured. "They come!" yelled one of the archers, coming to stand beside the forces assembled.

Gimli felt his heart surge as he lifted his great axe, its deadly edge glimmering in the fading sun. Merry and Pippin both drew their short swords, their faces tense with determination and fear. The last of the Elves sprinted from the trees, some angling about to fire behind them. They had augmented their group, doubling its size. Gimli began to allow himself to have some hope of victory.

From the trees came the battle cries of men corrupted and demons of the dark. Their poison spread about, and the  _mallorn_  trees were still, dropping no more of their precious golden leaves lest bloody and dirty feet trample them. Gimli stiffened as the wind blew to them a foul stench of violation and death.

Haldir drew his bow and stepped to the front of the group. He raised his voice. "The battle for Middle Earth may be over," he shouted, his tone calm and proud, "but ours just begins! We will not fall!"

The Elves rallied. Though few in number, they were strong of heart and body and proud enough to equal a force twice as big. Swords were drawn in a metallic chorus than rang through the air. Arrows were notched and bows raised. Haldir returned to the line, lifting his own weapon.

As the first troops of the enemy poured from the trees, the Elf narrowed his eyes. "We will defeat them here," he whispered softly.

Gimli felt heartened as he heard the Lórien archer repeat his earlier words. Their adversaries tore at the peace with their horrid and lusty cries and ripped at the ground in their charge. The Dwarf took a deep breath to steady himself, clearing his mind of all thoughts so that he might pour every potent ounce of his strength and spirit into this battle. He did this for Aragorn and for Gandalf. For the Hobbits. For the Lady and for Legolas. For himself.  _I will not fail!_ "Stay close to me, Merry, Pippin," he ordered softly as the archers released their first volley of arrows upon the approaching attackers. The small creatures nodded, jaws firm in their decision to win this moment.

All of Lórien shook with rage at the desecration.

The last battle had begun.

* * *

Screaming.

Another night came to Rivendell. The city was normally a picture of serenity and peace. Shadows fell over it, but they were calm and gentle, hiding nothing. The air was cool and still, without breeze or disturbance, the quiet moon above shedding a pale, ethereal light that soothed and brought a glow to all it touched. It was a beautiful sight, the marble of the terraces and buildings shining in the shadows, fireflies and wisps dancing in the air like winks of stars. Night was not meant to be a time of fear or distress.

Yet this night was much like the last and the one before that as well. A terrible wailing sliced through the tranquility, shattering the peaceful evening. It filled the air, leaving those awake to hear it wincing in pity and awkward fear. It was a cry of agony, of terror and rage, of the worst imaginable torture. It was a plea for help.

Arwen gasped as she pushed open the doors to quarters where Legolas lay bed-ridden. She pushed aside her grogginess and rushed inside. Her heart pulsed in panic and pain as she reached the side of the bed. "Legolas!" she called. "Legolas, awake! Please!"

But the body before her only continued to howl, struggling weakly in the throes of a horrific nightmare. Legolas kicked and pulled away as she tried to grab his arms in a tender restraint. Sweat-soaked bedsheets were tangled around his lithe form. Arwen's heart shuddered to hear his cries and sobs. Tears filled her eyes as she drew him into her arms.

He fought against her perhaps a moment more, pushing her away frantically. It pained her greatly to realize that he thought her capable of hurting him, that in his delirious, feverish mind he perceived her gentle, cool touch as only another attempt to cause harm. Finally he grew too exhausted to pull away, and he collapsed against her breast.

"Shh, Legolas," she whispered softly, feeling the heat of his skin through her nightclothes. His burning tears seeped through the light fabric, searing her skin. Gently she ran her hands through his abundant hair, trying to comfort him. She felt wretched this night. A terrible pattern had grasped them. Legolas would fall into a nightmare, distraught with memory and fever, and his cries and wails would awake her. She would rush to his aid, pulling him from the black pit of torture consuming him, and hold him as he sank back into an ailing slumber. And after that… She closed her eyes and felt them burn in exhaustion. It felt as though sand was trapped beneath the lids. She never managed to fall into anything besides a light doze, typically in the chair stationed beside the bed, afraid to leave him lest he again wake. She was afraid he might tear his wounds in his thrashing.

A heavy, ominous silence had descended upon them as she had thought, and now it deafened her. She heard her heart pounding, her heavy breathing. Instinct guided her hands, for her mind was distant with somnolent concerns and memories. It had been almost a week since her return to Rivendell. The time had seemed to pass incredibly slowly, the minutes stretching to hours, the hours lethargically becoming days. She despondently recalled her father's face the morning after they had arrived. She had awoken early, pulled from a healing sleep by the pressing worries abandoned selfishly by the want of her body. Her father had just finished tending to her dear friend's wound, and he emerged staggering from the room with lines about his eyes. She had rarely seen him so weakened. With imploring eyes she had regarded him, praying with all her being that he had known how to heal Legolas of the curse. But his diverted eyes told her before he had even spoken that he could do nothing to make Legolas once again an Elf.

In the days since a depression had come over the House of Elrond. No one spoke directly of the matter, but it was clear in each mind that the poor creature they housed was destined for a mortal life, that the dark aura about him could not be undone. A terrible tiding! Many of the Elves of Rivendell knew Legolas from his frequent visits. Some were quite affable with him. He was such a powerful and loving friend that all felt acutely his suffering. To see a great Elf fall! It was a rare enough event that it struck each brutally. Legolas was a prince, no less, and the son of a great and proud lineage. The shroud of despair and emptiness was thick and heavy, and none had the strength to utter even a thought of hope.

Arwen looked down at the shivering form in her arms. Legolas was wheezing, clinging to her. Underneath his disheveled and loosely drawn tunic she saw the bandages wrapped around his chest. Some were dotted with blood. She closed her eyes again and felt the energy rush from her body in a languid sigh. At least Legolas would live. Elrond had spent a good deal of his vital energy in healing his broken body. The nearly fatal wound was no longer threatening him with dangerous infection. The bleeding had all but stopped. His bruised ribs had been wrapped in linens as well as his left hand, which, after closer inspection, Elrond deduced had been broken rather badly. Many of the other injuries would heal in time. Still, some things would never remedy themselves. Her father had regretfully informed her that, given the extent of the injury and his body's diminished ability to contend with physical duress, he would most likely never walk again without a limp. The thought brought a lump to her tight throat and made her lips quiver.

She banished the thought.  _He is alive! That is hope enough!_ Yet, though she put all her spirit into convincing herself of this fact, it seemed so very shallow. It was not enough. He was tormented by terror and delirium. How long would these horrible nightmares continue? Was this a manifestation of the dreadful curse? She duly wished it were not the case. A lifetime of such suffering was the most heinous and unspeakable ordeal she could imagine. Was he forever doomed till the end of his days to reel in this shadow, to be ravished by the blackness set upon him? For all her want, she could do so little to help him!

A brush of cool air came through the room, piercing the uncomfortable and stagnant heat, and her dream she had had so many nights prior returned to her. There she had known peace. She held tight to the smallest sensation, basking in its easing touch, and prayed she had not been mistaken. Perhaps these nightmares that assaulted her injured friend were the substance of his own brutalized soul. Perhaps the curse was… She did not allow herself such a wanton hope, sufficing her hungry heart to simply believe that if Legolas overcame his pain, he might heal his spirit. He might grow strong enough to crawl from beneath the smothering shadow and live the rest of his life in peace.

So Arwen held him, listening to his pained breathing. He was probably sinking back into sleep, having exhausted himself with his fit. "It is alright, Legolas," she promised, smoothing his hair from his sweat-covered brow. She did her best to keep her own apprehension from her tone.

Much to her surprise, he spoke. His voice was a low, strained murmur. "It is not. It never will be again."

This was the first coherent thought he had spoke since Gondor. Had he finally broken free from his delirium? So taken aback, its depressed tone and content did not register upon her immediately. Before she could speak, he pulled away from her. With grimace he rolled over, hiding his face. His hair shimmered in the moonlight as it spread over the pillows.

Stunned, she sat still for a moment, unsure of what to say or how to act. That dark spirit clinging to him reached out to enfold her. She shuddered, feeling his depression, knowing this hell he could not escape. Soft weeping came from huddled form. "Why did you do this to me?" he asked. Cold fear jolted her, her heart leaping to her throat, as her worst fears materialized before her. "Why?"

 _Say something!_ Her numb lips moved, but she could find no words, shocked into a shameful, frightened silence. Legolas choked on a sob. His voice was a pathetic whimper. "There is no silence… I… I can hear myself screaming. I hear the crack of their whips and my blood splatter on the floor. I hear them laughing. They have taken my pride, my heart, my dignity… and they laugh and laugh!" She could not breathe or think to speak as he laid bare the substance of captivity, of what he had endured for their sake. "He is inside me… He tears me from within! I cannot escape him!" An insane chortle fled his lips. "He did make me his!"

"Who, Legolas?" she heard herself breathlessly ask.

"Saruman!"

She cringed inwardly at the name. The helplessness and pain became too much, and leaned over him, grasping his shoulder gently to pull his body around so that she might see his eyes. He screamed, skittering away from her as best as he could. "Do not touch me! You stay away from me!"

"Please, it is I, Arwen!" she declared, tears spilling from her eyes, her voice a weak plea for this nightmare to end.

Legolas howled as she touched his leg, recoiling as though her hand were a weapon. She saw the madness swirl in his eyes, a storm of delirious rage, anguish, and terror filling the feverish blue orbs. "I will not tell you…" he hissed through clenched teeth. In the pale light, he seemed a wounded animal, defiant but terrified of the punishment he had incurred. "I will die before I do! The Ring will not come to you, do you hear? I will not let it!"

Then she realized frantically that he did not realize where he was. He believed himself to back in Orthanc, in Saruman's clutches! "Legolas," she gasped, grabbing his shoulders and forcing him to look at her. He pushed back, his back against the bed's headboard, his eyes wide and panicked. "You are safe now! Look about you! This is Rivendell! Come away from the prison of your memories and have peace!"

If he heard her at all, he did not make sense of it or ignored the words. His eyes flashed with a murderous rage. Arwen yelped. Never should such a terrible humor come to such a gentle creature! "You lie! You seek to trick me into lowering my guard! I will not fall for your ploy!"

She pinned his writhing body to the bed with her own weight. She took his jaw into her fingers and held it tightly, though he did everything within his power to wriggle away. "This is no trick. The One Ring has been destroyed!"

In his eyes there was a glint of tears, of yearning. She saw him them, his weakened spirit struggling to break free from the insanity of the curse. Recognition crawled into those bright, blue eyes and she nodded firmly. He ceased his struggles, his taut face relaxing slowly. He began to cry again. His tears were warm against her hand as she wiped them away. For a long moment, neither spoke. She watched him battle against the fever. He was fighting to believe, to have faith, to heal.

Then he closed his eyes and sunk down as if his body was falling in defeat. She did not know whether to be glad or disturbed by his lax face. She straightened the sheets and blankets and helped him nestle beneath them once more. His strained breathing seemed so loud as she tucked him in, a wince returning to his face. Distressed, she lifted his hand between her own and closed her eyes. She had not anticipated the strain his illness would place upon her. "Arwen…"

She looked to him again. Clear tears slid from half-lidded eyes, running down his temples and into his hair. The orbs showed a picture of misery, of pain and loss. "Would you… stay with me here tonight?" His voice was no more a whisper, but the misery in his tone filled her with pangs of hurt and grief. Was this the same Legolas that had assured her all would be well so many nights past after her father's council? Could it be the same gentle and confident brother that eased her with his strong embrace and affectionate words? "Please…"

Leaning down, she smiled tenderly. "Of course." Then she kissed his cheek.

A moment later she lay in the bed with him, her arm draped across his shoulders, holding him close. She could feel him shake with sobs, his breath a weeping moan of air and voice. "It hurts," he whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut. "It hurts so very badly!" She did not know what to say, so she merely held him tighter. "There were so many times… when they were beating me I hoped I would die. Sometimes I thought I had." She felt him shudder, as though his spirit was banging against the confines of the flesh in a desperate attempt to escape the torment of this world. "But I never did."

She closed her eyes against the nightmare.

"I could always hear myself screaming."


	30. Fellowship Becomes Brotherhood

Gimli released a great battle cry and slammed his axe down. The man before him, dressed in rags soiled and foul-smelling, yelped and stumbled back as the sharp edge cleaved his cheaply made sword. The shattered blade fell to the ground, followed shortly by the assailant's rear as he stumbled back in shock, holding the useless hilt of his weapon. Gimli snarled at him, raising his axe menacingly, its sharp edge glowing a bloody red. That was enough to frighten the man into a retreat, and he scrambled clumsily to his feet before running into the shadows.

The Dwarf grinned smugly for a moment before turning to meet his next foe.

This night was very dark. Though the sky was clear and cloudless, the thick canopy of leaves above hid most the light of the stars and the moon. It was to their advantage mostly, for the heightened senses of Elves were not hindered by the blackness, their aim as deadly and reflexes as quick with no light to guide them. For Gimli and his Hobbit companions, it was not so easy a fight. The Dwarf slashed mightily at another assailant, catching him in the face. Blood splashed over him as he fell back into the shadows.

All around, Elves danced in battle. It was quite an amazing sight to behold, their lithe and slender forms little more than languid lines of a pale glow in the shadows. Never before had Gimli witnessed so many Elves in battle, and he found their fluid and soundless attacks at once awe-inspiring and unusual. They did not exude any evidence of difficulty or exhaustion, their breathing soft and unrushed. He had seen this endurance and skill in Legolas and Haldir, but only the two alone, and such an occasion made him forget that his two friends were mere representatives of entire race greatly talented in the arts of battle.

Their enemies were obviously distressed by the Elves' resilience as well, and they became confused and quarrelsome. Though the Lórien forces had yet to repel their attack, it seemed many of who opposed them were losing their interest, as if this assault was mere entertainment or game. Gimli grunted hotly, narrowing his eyes as he sidestepped a swipe and returned one of his own. It utterly disgusted him that their foes made such light of the situation. They would pay for their insolence in death.

Haldir shouted something in Elvish. Gimli saw the tall Elf perhaps ten feet off, firing a deadly volley of shots into the shadows ahead. Around him formed a line of archers, seeking to defend the spot for at least a little while. This had become the pattern of late. When the line was punctured, the warriors would swarm about the enemy and attack. But their defenses were never enough to stop the onslaught, and they inevitably lost their ground.

Even so, the Elves were steadfast as Haldir bellowed a command that Gimli assumed to be "fire". The Dwarf stepped back as arrows careened into the darkness, hearing screams and thuds moments later. Those men and Orcs not struck continued their charge, and the Elves brought up their swords, the archers nimbly avoiding the initial swipes and stabs. Gimli bore his axe proudly and threw himself into the fray.

For a few minutes he thought of nothing but the fight. His body moved without conscious direction, feigning, slashing, and stepping. Blood sprayed on the ground as he drove his weapon into the gut of an attacker, and then he whirled, ripping the axe free and catching another demon with its edge. His doubts began to surface. No matter how many they killed, victory became no more likely. Would they see the dawn yet?

Their adversaries were overwhelming them. In the shadows Gimli saw a pale flash of yellow. It was Rúmil, brother of Haldir. The lithe Elf moved like lightning, his sword flashing in swift arcs, as he battled the group of men surrounding him. The Dwarf marveled at the other's skill; the men were really no match for him, for he moved with such alacrity and precision that they had hardly any time or opportunity to pierce his defenses. Though Rúmil killed many, more swarmed about him. Gimli pushed past two men blocking him, knocking them ferociously to the ground.

Behind the Elf, an archer raised his bow. In the shadow, it was hardly discernable. A silver tipped arrow glimmered in the meager illumination. Rúmil did not appear to notice, intent on those foes that presently sought to overpower him. The Elf would never react in time!

Gimli let loose a howl and pulled from his belt his hand axe. This he hurled at the offender. The blade sunk deep into the Orc's slimy head, and the beast fell back into the blackness.

Rúmil stabbed his final opponent and then met the Dwarf's gaze. In the gray eyes was silent gratitude, and it eased Gimli's tired heart to receive such appreciation. The moment was shattered, though, when Rúmil's gaze grew abruptly frantic and wide.

Somehow Gimli knew immediately what had happened. He had failed to guard his rear. In the split second, he thought he should feel anger or at least sorrow. Instead, there was naught but a numbing calm.  _I may yet see you again, Legolas…_

_Thunk!_

Behind him the archer fell with a shriek of death, and Gimli ripped around. An arrow expertly fletched with white feathers extended from the side of the attacker's head. Warm relief and cold shock mingled within Gimli, and he did nothing but look up.

Haldir lowered his bow. The Elf stood tall and proud, glowing in the night as though less made of substance and more of raw power. To Gimli he offered a curt nod. The simple gesture said much, and for Gimli it was enough then to strengthen the precarious connection between them. Thankfulness. Reliance. Approval. They were becoming bound in their purpose, in their devotion to their cause. The Lórien archer had accepted him, for he had saved his own brother from peril. Such trusts were not easily earned! Gimli realized then how much he had come to value Haldir's companionship. The last of his prejudices were but blown away by a grateful breath. A bit of his bleeding heart healed, and his hate withered.

But there was little time for such musings, for the battle would not wait for his spirit to make sense of its emotions. Instead he renewed his vigor, his dedication to this victory fueling tired eyes and body. He flew into a flurry of attacks, chopping and slashing at any enemy close enough to come within his range. Gimli never counted himself a creature of great grace or patience; Dwarves delight in simple actions and thoughts. Yet he was as powerful in this fight as any Elf that danced elegantly and lightly in their stances. His axe sang, but it was not a song of vengeance or destruction. The melody became one of redemption, of hope. They would not lose this battle!

He heard a high-pitched yelp and turned. To his right were Merry and Pippin, the latter of which had fallen with what looked to be a shallow wound to his arm. Merry stood defiantly over his cousin, his short blade raised and his teeth bared. "Stay back!" he hollered at the Orcs surrounding them, waving the shining sword at them. Pippin fumbled for his own weapon in the shadows, his form shaking in pain and terror. His young eyes were wide in panic. The Orcs howled gleefully and taunted them, poking at the two Hobbits with gruesome spears and barbaric swords.

Gimli growled in anger and surged forth, swinging his great axe madly. A rain of sleek arrows descended upon those threatening the Hobbits, and they yelped and whined their surprise. Quickly, those that remained unwounded by the assault abandoned their torment, taking off in a wild and uncoordinated flight. An Elf by the name of Calaglin took aim and swiftly shot one in the back.

Haldir was beside the fallen Pippin instantly. "Are you well?" asked the Lórien archer. The Hobbit nodded, one hand clasped over the bleeding wound on his left forearm. His ashen face was glowing with weary relief. Haldir nodded and stood protectively in front of them. "Good. Stay close, now. It appears we have forced them into retreat."

Gimli looked up from his Halfling companions and into the shadows. He found the sight pleasing enough; the woods were empty once more. In the scant light he realized what lay before them was not the clean forest floor but a sea of broken bodies and corpses. Some called out in agony, weakly struggling to lift themselves from the cold bed of dried leaves and moss beneath them. Many lay dead.

In the passing respite, Elves scrambled about in search of arrows since their own supply was rapidly depleting. Others helped the wounded from the field. Orophin, another of Haldir's kin, approached. Blood dribbled down the side of his face from a scratch upon his temple. "We have lost ten more archers," the Elf said quietly, as if not wishing to disturb any who might hear. Gimli ground his teeth as the thought of such a death toll. Haldir's face remained impassive, but as he analyzed the expression, Gimli detected the flash of sorrow in the other's cold eyes. "We cannot hold this ground should they attack again!"

Haldir, though, remained unfazed by his younger compatriot's carefully controlled fright. "Peace, Orophin," he murmured gently, shaking his head. "We must not fall back."

Anger flashed briefly over the other Elf's visage, but it faded as quickly as it came. The fleeting serenity returned, and Orophin lowered his head, long locks of pale hair hanging limply about his face. Solemnly and resolutely, he began to scavage through the dead for arrows that still might be useable.

Gimli watched the exchange, his elation fading and leaving him worn and numb. "Perhaps we ought to retreat into the city," offered the Dwarf after a moment. The disparity of his own voice sounded rough and alien to his ears. One of Glóin's kin, a creature of the mighty heritage, suggesting flight? It seemed so cowardly and shameful. Yet he continued to speak, willing to concede that victory was slipping through their fingers. "This land holds no advantage. Caras Galadhon we can defend."

Haldir's face grew taut with anger so intense it seemed utterly misplaced and uncharacteristic. "Never," he whispered harshly, his eyes narrow and hard with a resolution that left no room for question. "We will never let their filth touch our city!" He stepped forward then and raised his voice to the night, his tone filling the air with a sense of purpose and strength. It brought hope to the weary hearts of all that could hear him. "We stand here, now! We stand together! There are but few of us, but this day will be marked for our struggle!" Haldir sighed softly. In the silence it was the breath of all the forest. "We are tired, and we have lost much. But we shall not let our lands come to ruin! We shall not lose this day! We are strengthened by brotherhood and friendship!" The Elf sought out the Dwarf's eyes, and Gimli felt a small smile crawl to his lips. He nodded, his heart warm with affection. "Let us stand and dismay our enemies!"

A healthy cry of admiration and agreement echoed from those that remained. Gimli glanced about him at the Elves. Weary and worn, covered in dirt and blood, they appeared so very far from how he had always pictured the Firstborn. They were as dirty and worn as he, as frightened of failure and as pained by memory. Gimli grinned sheepishly, his eyes distant in thought, as he recalled how he had considered Elves all those days before at Elrond's Council. Then they had all been haughty creatures of great arrogance and little use. He marveled at how much he had changed, at how greatly his views had matured.  _An old prejudice,_  thought the Dwarf,  _and it has done much to separate our peoples. We were blinded by distrust and ancient enmity._ Such hostility would prevail no longer. Peril had done much to free hearts from the bindings of racism and hatred. These malicious chains, now severed, would never form again. For the sake of Legolas and Haldir, Gimli vowed to maintain their alliance.

He heard Merry and Pippin speak softly behind him, and he turned. The smaller Hobbit had ripped a bit of his tunic and used it to bind the wound and staunch the blood flow. Pippin seemed otherwise unharmed, if not shaken, his face unnaturally pale. Merry stood beside him, whispering, his hand still wrapped about his cousin's arm. Gimli shook his head. "Mayhap you should return to Caras Galadhon, my friends, and seek shelter. You are obviously exhausted and there is likely much of this battle yet to come."

"No, Master Dwarf," responded Pippin. Though his tone wavered, his eyes were dark and vehement. "We've come this far. The others have done their part. Sam and Frodo, Legolas and Aragorn… We can't just hide now."

"It would be a crime, I think," Merry added, clenching his sword. "I know we're not the best or the strongest, not like you or Master Haldir. But I'm not leaving this fight until I see it won! It's ours as much as yours!"

"Here, here!"

Gimli smiled at their courageous display and stowed his worry for his friends in the deepest part of his mind where it would not trouble him. They were undeniably right; this was their battle to win. In the haze of his own anger and sorrow, the Dwarf had not seen the toll this terrible twist of events had had on the two Hobbits. They had witnessed death and brutality. Two of their closest companions had journeyed unprotected into a menacing and dangerous land, carrying on a quest meant for stronger and wiser folk. The warm and caring friendship they had held with Boromir was more than obvious to any who beheld their jests and wrestling. The stout warrior could still vividly remember the horror of their betrayal, of the shattered innocence and trust in their wide eyes. Though the fire of his own fury at Boromir's corruption had hardly dulled, he felt nothing but sympathy and grief for Merry and Pippin.

He closed his eyes momentarily and concentrated on warding away the horrific memories prodding at his attention. When the act became too strenuous for his weary mind and tattered heart, he simply resigned himself to its assault. It was the same terrible occurrence that had plagued him since Amon Hen. Each time he saw it, whether in nightmare or in wakefulness, it grew more potent, more crushing, and more enraging. Boromir's demented grin and insane laugh. His lust glowing madly in his eyes. Fighting. Running. The arrow. Legolas' fair face twisted in pain and sad realization. His steadfast gaze, insisting that Gimli flee yet yearning for rescue. The Dwarf cringed inwardly, his rage and despair bubbling up inside him like molten rock that burned and mutilated all it touched.  _That stubborn, crazy Elf! Had he not bade me leave him… Had I not…_  Legolas had resigned himself to his fate. Still, this observation did very little to relieve Gimli of his guilt. The matter had tortured him for weeks with terrible implications and taunting jeers. Why had he rowed away so many weeks prior? Because Legolas had afforded him no other option? Or had he simply been too weak and cowardly to join his Elvish friend in such a horrible destiny?

 _It does not matter now,_  his mind viciously admonished.  _He is dead, and you did nothing to stop it! You might as well have killed him!_

"Gimli?"

The Dwarf turned then and chastised himself for the disconcerting and distracting reverie. The gravity of the happenings slammed back into his head, rattling and disorienting him a moment. Then he focused upon Pippin. The Hobbit's young face was open with concern and question. Merry had joined Haldir as the Lórien archer spoke with his kin, the Halfling obviously interested in learning of their plan. All around the Elves rushed and worked, preparing to fend off the next onslaught of the siege. There would be only a few more minutes of reprieve.

At Pippin's obvious hesitation, the son of Glóin prompted, "What is it, Peregrin?"

Pippin's face scrunched in emotion. "I was thinking, and my mind led me back there…" The Hobbit did not elaborate more, but he did not need to speak another word. Somehow, Gimli understood, as if their grieving, guilty hearts had formed an intangible connection. The small creature gave a sigh that belied his stature, and he looked down. His eyes were misty. "Do you think Legolas blamed us for leaving him?"

For a moment, Gimli did not speak. He was rather surprised that Pippin had been pondering the very same prospect he had so recently abandoned himself. It was another facet of this tragedy he had inadvertently ignored: Merry and Pippin had been there as he had rowed away on the Anduin, leaving Legolas to die. They had wanted to do something at least. And he had stopped them. His guilt was bitter and tough. Still, the words fled his numb lips of their own accord, as if some part of him not fettered by the chains of his melancholy directed his speech. "No, Pippin," said the Dwarf finally, centering his gaze on the young Hobbit. He saw the pain diminish in the other's eyes and he grew strangely satisfied. He could not explain it, but his shameful thoughts made minutes prior suddenly seemed completely irrational. "Legolas would never do such a thing."

Inexplicably the pain began to fade, as though the truth of it, now clear and free, was simply too strong a force to allow his nonsensical guilt. Duty often came before friendship, and though it had been a terrible choice, it had also been the right one. How would things have changed if he had instead rowed back to that shore to save Legolas? They all would have been captured and likely dragged before Saruman. Would Legolas have spoken the truth about the Ring facing the forfeit of their lives? Gimli knew the Elf's strength and valor ran deep, but he also knew he could not say. Such useless wonderings! In reality, he would never be certain if another decision, if another action in the fateful moment, would have produced a more favorable outcome. Though this realization was discouraging, it was also somewhat relieving of the stress upon his spirit. He remembered something he had overheard long ago. Pressing his mind he placed the voice as Gandalf's, the wizard's gentle tone rumbling through the black and dank darkness of Moria.  _"Even the very wise cannot see all ends."_

"I sincerely hope that Boromir found Legolas," breathed Pippin, drawing once more Gimli's attention. It had not even occurred to the Dwarf to think much on the matter; he had resignedly given up his hope for Legolas' return and sadly thought the Elf dead. He had had no confidence in Boromir or those two gits of brothers from Mirkwood. Yet when he appraised the Hobbit, he saw faith glimmer and glow in the other's eyes. Pippin had always thought only the best of Boromir, even after the man had betrayed them. Such devotion was inspiring. "He promised he would. I believed him. Didn't you?"

The innocent inquiry touched the Dwarf. Gimli released a slow breath. He knew he would never be so forgiving as Pippin, but something about the Hobbit's gentle tone and imploring eyes forced his angry heart to try. "If the man had vigor and courage enough, he… Yes, I believed him." Some part of him that was still boiling in fury and grief severely castigated himself for such an admission. Yet the greater portion of his soul clung to this tiny bit of hope that had been restored. Festering anger and wrath did little. He might as well leave these hurtful feelings behind, for they could not change the terrible path of things since Amon Hen. Their world had become a knotted mess of truths and lies, of despair and hope, and nothing anyone could do would restore their Fellowship. His vengeance had morphed from a powerful force that gave him both energy and purpose to a troublesome weight that burdened his heart. Perhaps it was time to let this go.

Pippin was truly wise beyond his years. Though he masked it well with foolery and innocence, the Hobbit understood much. Gimli was grateful for his companion's simple and unclouded perspectives. "Well, then, perhaps we'll see them all again in Rivendell!" Pippin declared, smiling. Gimli tentatively mirrored the gesture, allowing himself to share in this small belief. Then Pippin's face fell, seriousness and determination returning to his eyes. "They're coming again."

Gimli turned. Sure enough, from the shrouds of shadow ahead came the roar of approaching feet. Battle cries echoed through the night once more. The Elves were quick to assume battle stances, those fortunate enough to have arrows raising their bows. Gimli felt apprehension like icy water wash over him. Only about twenty of Lórien's forces remained. How could they expect to repel this attack? Fear churned in the pit of his stomach, but Gimli's experience and strength as warrior masked his disquiet. The Dwarf growled, clenching his axe tighter as he peered into the black, waiting for the first sign of their enemies to breach the shadows.

The moment dragged on for quite some time before Gimli realized something had happened. Screams echoed through the night, voices tinged by pain, panic, and terror ripping to his ears. A great ruckus came, a cacophony of snapping branches and whining wood. Gimli blinked. His eyes were certainly playing him a foul trick, for he thought he saw great black masses shaped as trees bend and shift ahead as if in movement. Then there was a heavy silence. A hushed whisper of confusion and amazement fell over the group. The Dwarf stood still, peering into the shadows to detect any clue that might unravel this mystery. The rushed breathing of the two Hobbits behind him seemed so loud.

Haldir shook his head. "By Elbereth…" he murmured.

A cry rose in the air. One of the scouts, an Elf named Dínedal, sprinted from the curtains of night around them, picking his way through the trees with great precision. He called one word repeatedly and breathlessly to his comrades. Although Gimli did not understand the Elvish term, he detected the absolute shock and elation in the scout's tone.

The Dwarf looked to Haldir, confusion breaking his expression. "What do they say, Elf?" he demanded, his tone tight and a bit frustrated.

The tiniest bit of a smile found its way to Haldir's composed face. Relief shone in his dark eyes as bright as the moon. He closed them and looked down. "We are saved." His tone was little more than a relieved whisper.

Gimli returned his stare to woods ahead of them, and then he began to understand. Even in the dark night he could detect the movement. The forest appeared to be walking, marching towards them steadily and nosily. The lethargic gait was unmistakable and unforgettable. From the woods resounded a deep voice. " _Hroom!_ Well met, Elves of Lórien! This forest is great indeed, and I hope we are not too late to help it!"

Amazement came so strong, Gimli thought he might collapse. His limbs suddenly felt useless and disjointed. He watched numbly as the Ents came into his view, their massive forms rising from the ground to tower over his stout body. It seemed so strange and unreal that he doubted his weary eyes. Yet this was no dream. It was a miracle. A cheer went through their meager forces.

He sank to his knees and then sat, feeling at once unbelievably euphoric and completely spent. He bowed his head and sucked in a shaking breath. He thought he might cry. Imagine that! A Dwarf sobbing in joy!

The world returned to him. Merry and Pippin were literally bouncing in happiness, hugging each other. Many of the Elves were smiling or singing. A few had rushed back to the city to share the wonderful news of their victory. The quiet melody of the ancient tales filled the night, replacing the misery of battle with the warmth of companionship.

Gimli looked to Haldir beside him. The Elf met his gaze. Though his expression betrayed nothing, his eyes were open and offering of support. The tenuous bond between them strengthened in that moment, solidifying into brotherood. "Thank you, Gimli," he said softly.

The Dwarf smiled. It was the first time the Lórien archer had ever addressed him so informally. Though the words were unadorned, much was implied. He knew it took a great deal of Haldir's will to say such a thing. "You are welcome, Haldir." He as well found no need to say anything more, for they understood each other. There would be peace now between them. Gimli looked away, growing distant in thought.  _Nay, you are not Legolas. Nor would I ask you to be._

Then Merry and Pippin tackled him in a warm embrace, and he laughed. Haldir smiled. Such a simple sight had never before been so wonderful.

* * *

Dawn came to Minas Tirith. The sky was clear and bright, stretching endlessly in a sea of the deepest blue. A cool breeze had come during the night, sweeping across the plains and mountains and bringing with it an air that smelled vaguely of the ocean. The gentle wind blew the stench of death and decay from the scarred field upon which the battle for Middle Earth had occurred. The land was slow to recover and would display its wounds for many years to come as a reminder to all of what had transpired upon it. As a dedication to those that had lost their lives in the defense of their world. Long would all of Gondor remember.

Inside the White City, many had gathered for the memorial service honoring their fallen leaders. Banners all across the city flew at half-mast in respect for the dead, waving in the wind forlornly. People crowded the city's square, peasants and noble men alike, to pay homage to their dead lords. Behind this the Tower of Ecthelion rose, piercing the bright sky overhead proudly, as if in declaration of their victory. It was a strange sort of mood that had claimed the battered nation. At once they mourned and celebrated. They had sacrificed much to see this triumph. Minas Tirith blearily faced this day with hearts both heavy and hale.

Faramir released a slow breath as his father's body passed. Soldiers dressed in formal coats bore Denethor's litter upon their shoulders, their pace slow and solemn, their eyes lowered. The Steward was draped in the finest silks and velvets that hung over the ends of the litter, the palls brightly displaying his family's coat of arms. The young man forced his eyes upon the scene, not allowing himself the weakness of looking away even when tears blurred his vision. Idly he marveled at the skill of the burial preparation; his father looked well preserved, his face lax and peaceful, his form clean and pristine. It was a grotesque observation, but he found it vastly preferable to dwell upon it than the well of emotions pressing against his composure.

Following the procession came a parade of ladies bearing white flowers. The sweet fragrance filled the air, blown about by the gentle breeze, bringing a pleasant touch to the sad moment. Behind walked another set of six pallbearers, yet atop this litter was naught but a sword. The Blade of Gondor glowed vibrantly in the morning sun, belying the nature of its appearance. Harmlessly it lay in its sheath atop a bed of red velvet. Nothing more was said of it, for words and declarations were unneeded. They would honor the sword where they could not the warrior, for there was no other trace of Boromir other than his weapon. It was a tradition of ancient and somber origin. This somehow spoke more loudly and clearly than the appearance of a body, for a warrior only relinquished his sword in death.

Faramir bit his lower lip to keep it from shaking. His brother and father… both were dead, gone forever from him, and he felt the pain anew. The sight of the two litters grew hazy as tears filled his eyes. The procession halted in front of the group of nobles and soldiers assembled. Beside him, Faramir felt Aragorn sigh. The young king lowered his head and whispered softly a verse, his words fading into the gentle breeze. When the heir of Isildur again opened his eyes and raised his gaze, all fell silent. Faramir swallowed the lump in his throat and forced his heart to be still. He felt he could hardly breathe.

Then Aragorn grasped the hilt of Andúril. With a ring, the sword came free from its sheath. The company of Rohan and Gondor followed his lead, and hundreds of blades shined in the sun as they were raised in a salute. Faramir drew his own sword and held it before his face, his hand pressed to his heart.

The moment was serene and beautiful. Its enormity filled the young lord, and breathing was all he could do to keep himself tethered to it. He heard his heart beat. The cool wind. The warm sun. He could think of nothing to say or feel, his mind numb in a strange sense of sorrow and hope. Honor overwhelmed him, and it was strong enough to bring to him sweet euphoria. Yes, his family was gone, but they had both done so much for all of Gondor. And all of Gondor was expressing their sadness and their gratitude. Soldiers saluting fallen leaders with only the greatest respect and sincerity. Perhaps this was the passing of an era, but he was glad to have been part of it. He was honored to be his father's son, and his brother's brother.

The swords fell and trumpets resonated in the square. Their clear and powerful notes echoed off the great, stone buildings, as though angels were bellowing their cheer and contentment. He thought it silly, but the sound was enough to break the tears from his eyes, and slowly they trailed down his face.  _Father! Brother! Look at what you have done today!_

Subsequently it passed. The soldiers began to walk again, the procession slowly making its way to the tomb of the Kings where both the heroes would be buried. As they passed, people of all sorts knelt and bowed, some tossing roses or other flowers atop the litters. Some wept openly. Others bowed their heads to respectfully hide their tears. Faramir watched as the procession marched away, the silence profound and absolving. He felt to look elsewhere or even blink would demean the instance and detract from these last few moments he would ever spend in the presence of his family. His father's proud smiles. Boromir's laughter. How he missed them!

Finally he could not longer discern the procession from the crowd. A long, shaking breath fled white lips, and he lowered his head. His tears turned cold when the breeze brushed by him, and he shivered in spite of the sun's warmth. So this was how it would end. He did not know whether to cry or laugh, to feel sadness or joy. Instead he felt nothing.

The company of armed men began to disperse, and a hush of talk slowly filled the air as the crowd broke free from the silent moment. Aragorn laid a friendly hand upon his shoulder. "Are you well, Faramir?" he asked gently.

Faramir thought he should be angered by this silly question, but he found he was not. "I do not know, my Lord," responded he quietly, raising his distant gaze. His eyes absently traced the powerful, elegant lines of the White Tower. So many times had he done this as a child. A pleasant memory came to him, one in which he had stood in this very same spot and demanded that his father regale to him all the tales of men, of Elendil and Ecthelion, of the might of their heritage. His father had laughed merrily and complained of the number of times he had already told such stories. Still, he gladly said them again at the young Faramir's insistences, holding his son's hand as they together beheld the grand tower in all of its silvery beauty.

Faramir smiled ruefully. "But the day is new, and I think I will be."

Aragorn seemed satisfied enough with that. It was a trying situation that they both were still struggling to understand. The ranger did not seem to have the heart to explain to him what Boromir had done to the Fellowship of the Ring, and Faramir himself had not the courage to ask. It seemed to the young lord that, though his curiosity at times grew almost insatiable, it was not his place to inquire such obviously painful information. What had happened between Aragorn and his brother was not his to remedy or even understand. It was a silent pact he and his king had somehow forged. Neither was willing to speak of it, and for Faramir it was enough for now. He was not sure that he would even want the truth were it available. Though he had come to assume much of Boromir's corruption, he was certain the reality of it would be far worse than his imaginings. He was not sure if he was ready to besmirch his brother's valiant image, for he knew once it was tarnished, he could never again regain that innocent adoration. Moreover, the wound was still too fresh for all concerned, and it would do no good to pry into matters that still pained and tormented. When there was time enough to heal, perhaps then he would want to know the truth.

"I must go," said Aragorn, breaking Faramir's reverie. "Prince Vardaithil leaves momentarily, and I must bid him my gratitude."

"What became of Prince Legolas?"

Pain flashed in Aragorn's dark eyes briefly, and Faramir cringed, fearing he had perhaps overstepped his bounds with the question. This as well had been a matter of some contention, an unspoken concern among all who knew the king well enough to understand. During the battle, Aragorn had been a furious commander, pouring endless energy into their defense. Even in the darkest hour he had not relented, demanding sharply that every soldier continue the fight until they had obtained victory. Faramir had not understood it at the time, but he eventually realized that through such vigilant anger and concentration Aragorn had protected himself from paralyzing terror and worry. Clearly much had gone on between the Nine Walkers to distress him. "I have not heard word from Rivendell. I intend to ride there come the morrow with Gandalf."

The young lord merely nodded. It had obviously taken a great deal of Aragorn's will and perseverance to keep the ranger in Minas Tirith while his family's lives had been threatened. Faramir really could expect no more of him. "I will prepare for your coronation so the plans are ready when you return," declared the young lord, shirking his grief and concentrating on the matters at hand.

Aragorn managed a small, appreciative smile. "I take my leave then," spoke the ranger.

Nearby, Gandalf stood speaking to Brodderband and Prince Éomer of Rohan. To them Aragorn walked, his stride tall and proud. Faramir had perhaps had his doubts about Aragorn's nobility and strength, but he realized now that they had been folly. The ranger had truly embraced his birthright. Boromir had been right in his last orders. "King Telcontar!" he called. The other turned and regarded him, his face open and expectant. "You did not fail me, and you did not forget him. You have kept your honor and your promise."

The words hung on the air for a breath, and then Aragorn's expression relaxed into a relieved smile. He nodded firmly, the joy at such acceptance clear in his eyes. Then he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Faramir sighed gently and returned his gaze to the pearly spike of the tower before him. Time lost meaning to him as he stood and beheld its majesty. It was an amazing thing, really, that this simple structure had seen so much. Forever watchful of Mordor, now it would stand in peace, in true tranquility, for the first time in what seemed to be forever. The One Ring was no longer the burden of men. The mistake made by Isildur had finally been corrected, and Gondor would now wipe away the stain of its greed. They had done it. They had all done it. Faramir felt proud to have played a role in this epic struggle, to have fought for good and known the strength of his people. He had always been the younger brother, content to submit to Boromir's thoughts and actions. Now he was older and wiser, having wielded his weapon and heart in this war. He felt father and brother would have been proud of him.

"My Lord?"

It was a soft voice, the tone feminine and innocent. Faramir looked to his side and found a young woman watching him with cornflower blue eyes. Her abundant hair was a bright gold that shimmered in the sun. Her face was comely and pale, its shape round and features well defined. She wore a simple black dress to indicate her mourning, although the color seemed entirely unfit for her bright eyes and skin. He found her to be quite enchanting and somewhat familiar. She had caught his eye days prior, when the forces of Rohan had reached Gondor. At the time he could afford her beauty but a glance, distraught with weariness and pain from his wounds. After a proper meal, a warm bath, and a night's rest, he saw her anew. He smiled genuinely. "Lady Éowyn, is it not? Lord Éomund's daughter?"

"Indeed, Lord Faramir," she answered, curtsying elegantly. She smiled, though the gesture seemed tinged by sadness. "I wish to extend my condolences. I know it must mean little after all that has happened, after all you have lost…" She trailed off and grinned again feebly, obviously losing her words and her courage. "How trite this sounds. Please forgive me."

Faramir shook his head. "There is naught to forgive, my Lady. I thank you for your intentions, and for your family's continued alliance with Gondor. This terrible battle might have ended quite differently had your brother not arrived when he did."

"It was little compared to all you and yours have done," she assured him. "I daresay Rohan might have fallen to the black clutches of Isengard had not King Elessar convinced my uncle to ride against Saruman." Her eyes grew misty with unshed tears and unspoken sorrow. He felt for her, despite his own pain. "We have all lost much," she whispered.

He said nothing at first. The silence that ensued was awkward for him, and he had to tense every muscle in his body to keep himself from fidgeting. Her eyes were distant upon the White Tower, traveling its length with analytical care. He followed her gaze, trying to concentrate on the pattern of white stone, on the smooth lines of its construction, on its grandeur. Instead her powerful presence distracted him, and he stole a glance at her from the corner of his eye. Her face was downcast, and for some reason it hurt him greatly to see her melancholy. Softly he spoke. "Aye, we have. But there is time now, time and opportunity. Those that have died would not wish guilt or despair upon us. The only way we can do justice to those that have suffered in our stead is to live on, without regret."

She faced him then. Her eyes sparkled in the sun. The captivating smile slowly returned to her face, a bashful rose coloring her cheeks. She nodded firmly. "You are wise beyond your years, Lord."

"And you brave beyond yours, Lady," he complimented in turn. He remembered her vaguely when Prince Éomer had led his men to the wall. She had been garbed in chain mail and outfitted with a short sword. He thought it a strange sight at the time, to see a woman dressed as a soldier. Thankfully, there had been no need for her to join the men on the wall, for most of the fighting had ended. Faramir had seen the relief on her brother's face. "You came to Gondor prepared to fight, though none would ask such a thing of a-"

"Of a woman?" she finished for him. Her tone had gained an irritated note to it, and he cringed. Annoyance flashed in her eyes.

"I did not intend to offend you," he stammered, scrambling for a way to regain face. He averted his eyes, shame burning color into his cheeks. Of all the insensitive things to say!  _You blundering fool!_ "I only meant to say that it is not common practice to send a lady, least of all one so fair as you, my Lady, into a fearsome fight." He felt like slapping his forehead when he heard how lame he sounded.

She laughed then, a merry sound that reminded him of music. It was not the response he had expected. A little of his horror faded, and his embarrassment relinquished its paralyzing grasp upon him. He smiled dumbly, trying to piece apart her reaction and then simply giving up the puzzle, content in the fact that he had somehow amused her. That he had made her laugh. "You are quite the picture of a little boy when you blush so, my Lord!"

His smile broadened. "Then I am glad for it, since it pleases you!"

Her laughter died to a giggle. Then she looked away, returning her gaze to the tower. A quiet moment passed, and Faramir felt a bit of his anxiety and apprehension wane. He watched her face glow as she beheld the shear enormity of the structure. She stepped around on light feet, glancing about Minas Tirith. "This is a beautiful place," she breathed. "It is nothing like Edoras. I know now why they call it the White City!"

Faramir asked, "This is your first visit to Minas Tirith?"

A resentful look briefly filled her eyes. "Yes, I fear, and at such a terrible time as well. My father and uncle were a bit overprotective of me, and I was not often allowed to leave Edoras. I would have enjoyed exploring this vast kingdom, but I feel the time is most inopportune."

"It is not," corrected Faramir. She looked to him, a question poised on her lips. "We cannot be hampered by these sad happenings forever." He did not think over his words. He simply followed his heart, for he was tired of the doubt and misery of his thoughts. What was done was done, and the past could not be changed. He banished his grief. Why should he wallow in it? "The day is beautiful. Let us not waste it. Come, I will show you anything your heart desires."

Éowyn seemed hesitant at first, as if wondering at the appearance of impropriety. When he remained true to his offer, she finally nodded and smiled slowly. "I would much enjoy that, my Lord."

His heart veritably shuddered in joyous relief. To her he offered his arm, and she took it, resting her elegant hand in the crook of his elbow. Briefly he was afraid he might stumble or trip as he walked, for his feet felt so strange and heavy, but thankfully he maintained his hold on himself. He began to speak as they strolled, telling her this and that, trivial facts or matters of lore that his father had once told him. And as they went, he thought he could hear Boromir's laughter over his ungainly way with women passing on the breeze.

He smiled. His brother had always been quick to tease.

* * *

Shadows fell across the great dining hall of Minas Tirith, and in them Aragorn tried to sink. As a ranger, he had learned to consider the concealing shrouds of night allies in stealthy movement and in hiding. Still, he had never thought them to be a comfort, or himself to be kin to their blackness or their void and absence of validity and light. After all that had happened, though, he was beginning to have his doubts. How simple and alluring their lives seemed! They flashed in and out of reality, existing insofar as to blanket truth, lurking in their own world where there was no illumination. Like demons, they emerged only when it was safe, when there was no threat of discovery. And as the sun rose, they winked from being, content now to wait until night again to reveal themselves.

He felt much the same. Light was too painful; it made reality undeniable. He desired no companionship because communication with another felt to be greatest torture at the moment. He was weary, both physically and mentally, and he did not know if he had the strength to face the cruel reality of things. He smiled crookedly. To come this far, to battle the worst and win, only to now falter when resolution was but a breath away. He was weak indeed.

Aragorn supposed he should have felt overjoyed to have succeeded in what all his life he had struggled to do. He had claimed his birthright and become king. He had protected his people from Sauron's rage. He had helped to destroy the One Ring and remove its crushing hold upon the blood of Númenor. He had restored pride and power to his lineage, to all of Gondor. Yet he was not overjoyed, or glad even. Relief wafted through him, an exhausted relief that did little besides adding to his general fatigue. He sighed. He had never much in the past allowed himself to sink into despair, for depression was, in his opinion, a sign of frailty. It was equivalent to resigning oneself to failure solely because one did not try hard enough to triumph. Self-pity was akin to doubt and frailty. Then again, never before had he fought so very hard and still not been able to make everything right.

Tomorrow they would ride to Rivendell. The thought both excited and disturbed Aragorn. Though he tried to turn his thoughts elsewhere, he could not help but anxiously ponder what he might find upon reaching his home. It would be wonderful, he decided, to see Elrond again. The Half-Elf had become Aragorn's mentor through the years, at times offering more fatherly advice and affection than simple instruction. Similarly, he wished to spend time with Elladan and Elrohir. They had always been steadfast friends with open minds and huge hearts. And Arwen… was she safe? Had she arrived in her father's lands, as she had promised she would? Surely she had. She was strong of body and spirit, and her mind was quick to resolve any dangerous or difficult matter. His lady would of course find her way home. His heart could not bear to think otherwise.

The ranger closed his eyes and leaned tiredly back into the comfort of his chair. The great table before him was empty, stretching solemnly to the opposite end of the room, the seats somehow more noticeable in their vacancy. He sighed, feeling the energy leave his battered body on the breath, and leaned his forehead on his hand. Every muscle ached, every bone felt brittle and weak enough to break with even the slightest amount of strain. He had come to the end of his endurance, and his form was hunched and worn. He did not envy himself the merciless drive he knew he would undertake to reach Rivendell. Though his body was beaten and bruised, he would push it again for the sake of his heart. He did not know how much more worry it might sustain. Yes, tomorrow they would race with all speed possible. He could not stand to wonder any longer.

A loud creak resounded through the great hall, startling Aragorn. The ranger chastised himself for his distracted senses and quickly righted himself, blinking a few times to wipe the drowsy apparitions from his eyes. He was king, after all. He should not appear a slump.

Yet it was only Gandalf, and the ranger relaxed, the tension again leaving his abused body. He was suddenly glad his old friend had happened upon him. The mettle and patience required to face another dignitary or soldier was fleeting, and the shadows were becoming poor company.

Gandalf smiled warmly as he approached. His robes swished with the movement, his staff rhythmically clanking on the polished stone floor with each step. Aragorn watched him carefully, once again immensely grateful that the old wizard had been with him through this ordeal. Without Gandalf's steady mind and encouragement, he did not know how he might have fared. "The city is quiet this night," commented the ancient creature as he came to stand beside the empty table.

Aragorn grinned feebly, the gesture without feeling or energy. "They deserve it," he commented in a monotone.

Gandalf's eyes narrowed. "And what do you deserve, Aragorn?" he asked gently. An ancient, weathered hand came to grasp the ranger's shoulder. The touch was firm and strong. Aragorn diverted his gaze from Gandalf, amazed that the wizard still read him so well despite whatever walls he had erected to hide his feelings. He was sheepishly ashamed that he had even tried. After bidding the forces from Mirkwood farewell, he had retired to seclusion, feeling terribly guilty and angry. Despite the fact that Prince Vardaithil had seemed amiable enough, there was much yet that remained unresolved. The ranger saw the grief and anger in the other's eyes, though the fuming rage from earlier seemed to have cooled considerably. The Last Alliance had nearly shattered, the ranger surmised, and it had been his fault. He could not tell if Vardaithil knew the truth about Legolas or Astaldogald, and he did not have the courage to broach the subject. He had merely offered stiff gratitude and statements of peace, which Vardaithil had reservedly accepted. Aratadarion had not even so much as met his gaze. Aragorn grew certain that something serious had happened between the brothers, something to which he was not privy. And they had parted with much left unsaid. The painful farewell had soured Aragorn's mood considerably.

His heart felt black and heavy. "I deserve little," he muttered. His eyes flashed with anger, and he met Gandalf's compassionate gaze. "Aye, I may have done what I set out to do, but at such a cost, Gandalf! Such a terrible cost!"

"Great achievement does not oft come without such a price," offered the wizard calmly. "Do you wonder if it was worth it?"

"Does Legolas?"

Silence. The shadows swept over them, and Aragorn looked down. Tears suddenly burned in his eyes, and he was ashamed of them. He was tired of feeling this way. "My boy," Gandalf said softly. The great wizard knelt beside him, and his old eyes were full of sympathetic understanding. Aragorn felt young, then, remembering times in his past when Gandalf had addressed him as such and regarded him with that same kind gaze. "You cannot assume guilt for matters beyond your control. Many sacrifices have been made, some small and some great. It is not ours to judge what others have given up for our sake. We must merely smile our thanks, and take what we have without remorse or bitterness." Gandalf gripped his shoulder tighter. "Know what you still have. Understand in truth what you have lost."

Aragorn shook his head. "How can I face him now?" he whispered, his voice a mere shade of its usual confidence. He sounded the young boy, desperately seeking approval. "What can I say to make this right? I chose my duty over him, and he lost everything… I broke the most solemn of oaths! What if he does not forgive me that?"

"He knows this," the Istar replied, "and he knows you. He will understand. Your friendship with Legolas has made you strong, Aragorn." Gandalf smiled. "Do not forget that it has made him strong as well."

The words were heartening, but they were not enough to assuage the ranger's pain. "Will you be able to help him, Gandalf?" he asked, wistful.

The hesitation that flashed in those dark, deep eyes answered the question better than any spoken reply. Aragorn felt his heart tremble in grief, in hope. Gandalf seemed to linger, as if deciding whether to betray the man's trust with a lie. Then he grinned, though the gesture was contrived and forced. "I hope so," he said. "I do hope so. I will try with all my heart."

They held each other's gazes for a moment, their friendship old and strong enough to speak in the silence. Gandalf offered faith. Aragorn dared to believe in it. The answer was not what he had wanted, but it would have to be enough. He resigned himself to this. Even though waiting was torturous, there was no other choice. After all, Gandalf had become the White, the strongest of his kind. He had defeated Saruman. Surely he could undo this black curse placed upon Legolas.

After a moment, Gandalf stood. He groaned, his body creaking with the movement, and he made an exaggerated show of how old he truly was. Aragorn smiled in spite of himself. "Come now. Take some rest. We have quite a journey ahead of us."

The idea had much merit. At least in sleep he could not muse or ponder matters beyond him. His body cried out for rest and his mind yearned for a healing oblivion. He gave no more thought to the matter and stood, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.

Another creak of the door reverberated off the great walls and high ceiling, the sound exponentially amplified in the silent, grand chamber. "I am sorry to disturb you, Lord," said the guard that poked his head between the giant oak slabs, "but there are two… rather small people here to see you. One declared himself to be a 'Frodo Baggins'. Shall I send them away, Lord? It is quite late."

Aragorn doubted his ears at first. The world spun, and he thought his body might topple. Then his heart pounded in joy, and he cast aside his anguish in a rush of warm euphoria. "Frodo?" he gasped, forcing himself to focus on the guard. "Are you sure?"

"Quite, my Lord," responded the other, his face fractured in confusion at Aragorn's reaction.

"Where are they?" Aragorn demanded. "I will attend to this personally!" Sudden energy jolted through him, and he was already walking. Gandalf matched his stride as they burst through the doors.

Stunned, the guard struggled to keep up, jerking into motion. "In the stables, my Liege."

Aragorn needed to hear no more. He took off in a jog, racing through the halls. The corridors and stairs were nearly empty at this time of night, and he moved by instinct, his mind shocked into a stupor of joy and exhilaration. His heart pounded with excitement as he ran, his rushed breathing deafening him. He could scarce believe this had happened. Irrationally he feared that should he tarry, this would be a dream that all too quickly slipped away.

But it was no dream. He exploded into the darkened stables and stopped. Winded, he glanced about quickly. Golden light from torches fastened to the thick posts spread through the area, pushing back the shadows. There, in the center, were two small forms and a massive horse.

_They are alive!_

Aragorn smiled, his heart filling with such ecstasy that he thought it might burst as Frodo met his eyes. The Hobbit released a choked sob. The ranger rushed forward and collapsed to his knees before the two Halflings. "Strider!" cried Sam, leaning heavily on the other Hobbit's shoulder. The two fell into his arms and he hugged them hard.

He felt some part of himself heal in that instance as he embraced his dear comrades tightly. He closed his eyes, tears filling them, and simply felt in the moment the love and friendship. He thanked whatever powers there may be for the safe return of his charges.

Sam pulled away, sniffling, and wiped his tear-stained cheeks on his sleeve. "We were afraid we made a wrong turn some while back, but Shadowfax knew his way, that he did!"

Gandalf rumbled from behind them, his voice deep and jovial, "It seems I was right to leave you in his care then!" The wizard gave a hearty guffaw and hugged Sam tightly. "You have done it, Samwise! I am proud to say you have!" Then he embraced Frodo, engulfing the small creature in his long arms.

Sam laughed then too, his smile so wide it stretched across his face. "I did as you said, Master Gandalf!" He looked to his friend, though Frodo seemed reserved as he pulled free from the wizard's arms. "We did it together."

The minute that followed was awkward and somehow uncomfortable. Aragorn looked at Frodo's shameful eyes and felt his euphoria wilt. Something had happened between the two Hobbits, something painful and distressing enough to shatter Frodo's spirit. The ranger saw it clearly, and it pained him immensely. He had to fill the vacuous moment. "Well, the important thing is that you are both alive and well, though no worse for the wear." It was true enough. Aside from being dirty and too thin, both of the Hobbits appeared healthy, though Sam's leg was shabbily braced. A few bruises and cuts covered him as well. "We can properly tend that wound."

Sam blushed. "It's no big matter, Mister Strider, sir. It hardly pains me now!" The Hobbit smiled sheepishly. "I'd much rather have something to eat, if it's not too late.  _Lembas_  are quite filling, but even an Elf must grow tired of that same taste if eaten enough! How I've longed for a pie or good stew… Oh, I've misplaced my pipe! Think I could trouble you for another?"

Aragorn laughed, the sound of Sam's rambling filling him with warmth. He ruffled the small creature's curly hair affectionately. Seeing him so happy was a soothing balm to his frayed nerves. "Surely you can, Sam. And it will be no problem to have the cooks prepare you something you may eat while the healers tend to your leg."

Sam nodded. He glanced to Frodo and, upon seeing his friend's withdrawn expression, his smile slipped. "Come, Mister Frodo! What would you like to eat?"

For a moment, the meek Hobbit did not speak, as if too shy to let down his defenses. Aragorn watched him with a heavy heart, mourning the change that had come to the Hobbit. The weight of the Ring had disappeared from his big blue eyes, but something had taken its place. It was pain of his own making, the ranger knew, a guilt borne from a deep wound to the heart. Aragorn suspected Frodo was long in healing. We all are.

But the Hobbit lifted his head and smiled. "I wouldn't mind some stew, if it's alright," he softly declared. A small grin pulled at his lips.

"Alright? Of course it is alright, my boy!" Gandalf loudly declared. He clasped Frodo on the shoulder, and then patted Shadowfax affectionately. The horse whinnied in pleasure at the touch. He whispered something softly to the beast, and it soothed visibly, nuzzling itself into Gandalf's shoulder. Then the Istar turned. "Come, then, and let us tend to you, heroes that you are! There is a great story to tell. A great story!" Together they walked, and Sam began to speak, regaling their awesome tale. Frodo's hand found its way into Aragorn's own.

A vital part of their Fellowship had been restored.

Aragorn smiled and closed his eyes.  _A great story of fellowship becoming brotherhood._


	31. Sight So Clear

The leaves again fell in Lothlórien. Like a sprinkle of gold, they tumbled from the mallorn trees, floating through the air as if they possessed tiny spirits that yearned to fly. Upon the forest floor they rested, landing lightly and carefully, the pattern they created at once beautifully random and carefully planned. An ancient magic guided this gentle rain of leaves, bringing to it an aura of peace and purpose that took more than simple senses to understand. Knowing that the threat against the fair land was vanquished eased all who were present to see this splendor.

Gimli breathed deeply. The air was fresh and clean, warmed by the rising of the sun. He watched the elegant dance of the leaves and developed a new appreciation for nature. As a Dwarf, he much preferred the rough strength of ancient stone, and he was much at home in dark caves where the rock was powerful and protective. Still, he was beginning to understand why Elves so loved the trees and the stars. Each possessed a certain beauty that, while perhaps subtle to his people, was undeniably heartening. His father had often spoken quite unfavorably of the Elves of Mirkwood, criticizing their dark, dense forests that more resembled a labyrinth than a kingdom. After traveling so much, Gimli was beginning to understand that each land, each home, had a grace that often took the eyes of its own children to see.

They stood at the edge of the forest, where the trees receded and became grasslands. A small collection of Elves had assembled to see them off this morning. Among them, flanked by Lórien's best warriors, were the Lady and Lord. With the dawn they shone, golden and beautiful, ageless in wisdom and experience. Before them, Gimli bowed, placing his attention once more on this last good-bye. Merry and Pippin followed suit.

"You need not lower yourself so, Gimli, son of Glóin," said Galadriel. Gimli raised his gaze to look upon her. Her pale face was calm and peaceful, and her eyes, once so burdened by a timeless evil he could not begin to understand, were now clear. "You have done a great favor to us in fighting on our behalf, and I would not have you think yourself unworthy of my mere gaze."

Gimli grinned. "It is no matter of worthiness, my fair Lady, but a choice. Ere I look upon you, I feel greater than I was moments past. Such a gift I would not easily give myself!"

Galadriel returned his simple gesture with a smile of her own. "How kind you are," she declared. She turned her bright gaze to the Hobbits as well. "How kind and valiant you all are!" To each of the Halflings she gave a chaste kiss, a mere brush of her pink lips upon their foreheads. Merry and Pippin both smiled quite broadly. The elation of their victory the night before still had not dissipated, and the two had been veritable frenzies of joyous energy. Gimli was happy for them; they had accomplished something grand and stupendous, and they had every right to be proud.

Then the Lady knelt before him. She spoke softly, her voice little more than a melodic whisper that reminded him of the breeze rustling the leaves. "Hasten to Rivendell. There you will find much that you thought lost." Her words perplexed him, but he chose not to question the matter, simply awed by her powerful presence. She kissed his brow as well, endowing him with a caress he knew he would long remember. Then the enchanting Elf straightened her form and returned to her husband's side.

Celeborn's face was without expression, but in his fathomless eyes showed relief. Clearly the threat against his people had disturbed him greatly. "We wish you a safe journey," he said. "You shall be forever Elf-friends and welcome in these lands."

"Such a reward is far too much for our simple deeds," responded Gimli, "but I do accept it. I am only glad we could be of some service." The Dwarf pressed a spot over his heart where he kept the lock of Galadriel's golden hair. "I will never forget the lasting alliance formed between our peoples."

"Let us not."

"Farewell, my Lady and Lord."

"Farewell, Gimli, son of Glóin!"

Then they turned elegantly and began to walk, although to Gimli's eyes the magnificent creatures seemed more to float across the bed of golden leaves. Their guards each offered a bow or nod before following, though now their weapons remained lowered in this time of peace. The Dwarf and Hobbits watched the retinue until they could no longer distinguish their forms from the blur of trunk and leaf.

Only Haldir, Orophin, and Rúmil remained. Gazing upon the three now Gimli detected the likeness between them. He had never imagined Haldir to have such a family when the Lórien Elf had enigmatically appeared in Edoras so many weeks back. Brotherly love seemed a concept too precious and sweet for such a cold, arrogant, and aloof being. How wrong he had been!

Orophin smiled. He held the reins to Arod. The white horse appeared as skittish as ever, barely comforted by the touch of the tall Elf. Perhaps the impatient steed merely wished to begin their journey. Gimli wondered if the horse would ever calm itself. "That beast will not let me ride it," grumbled the Dwarf, eyeing the horse with disdain.

"Come now, Master Dwarf. He will bear you well enough. You need only trust him," said Rúmil. Gimli found that Haldir's brother was somewhat different than the standoffish Elf, displaying at times an air of open friendliness. He had once or twice even jested since the fall of their enemies the evening before. He was not so old or experienced not to be shocked into a paralyzed stupor by the mere existence of the Ents, much less their timely appearance. Like a curious child, Gimli had witnessed him watch Treebeard and his people with awe as they had received the gratitude of the Lady and Lord. Much had transpired between Galadriel and Treebeard that Gimli had not understood, and it was clear from the confusion in the eyes of many of the Lórien warriors that they did not comprehend the exchange either. It was another facet of their culture that Gimli found common to his own. Though immortality made Elves ageless, it was clear that youth still clung to some like Rúmil and Legolas. They still acted with childish immaturity that the Dwarf found endearing at times. Rúmil had even gone so far as to walk with the Ents as they left Lothlórien, glued to them with unending interest. Gimli regretted that he would not have the opportunity now to better become acquainted with the Elf.

The tall Rúmil gave Merry the reins of the pony. The saddlebags had been adequately stuffed for their journey to Rivendell. Then he turned to Gimli. "I must thank you," he announced quietly, meeting the Dwarf's gaze. "You saved my life, and I will not forget that."

"Do not indebt yourself to me," Gimli ordered. "Allies do much for each other in battle that deserves no reward."

Rúmil smiled, the light in his gray eyes betraying his relief. He turned away. "Be well, Master Dwarf. I hope to see you again." Orophin joined him, offering the reins of Arod to Haldir. The latter Elf nodded, cool and stoic yet. There was a bit of reservation in his eyes. Gimli returned the gesture, satisfied with that and nothing more. Then the two Elves walked back to Caras Galadhon.

Then there was silence. Even the forest grew tense in the awkward emptiness. Haldir grasped Arod's reins tightly. "Come," he said softly, "I shall escort you out."

They remained quiet as they walked, the sound of soft footsteps loud and pressing. These were the last footsteps of their journey together, the final paces in a long and difficult quest. Gimli bowed his head as they walked, watching the leaves disappear under his feet, and found he was not tired or pained as he thought he would be. Haldir was silent beside him, making no sound in his gait. It amazed Gimli that so powerful a presence could come and go so silently. Was this the way of the Elves? To magically appear when the time is most needy and then depart again when the moment is right, without hint or warning? His heart ached a bit as he saw the edge of the forest approach. He had become quite attached to Haldir, despite his best efforts. He would be most saddened to part with him now.

The border was marked by little more than tall grasses. It was the same sort of boundary the Fellowship had crossed so many months ago after escaping the terrible dark of Moria, after losing Gandalf. It had marked the beginning of a great change in Gimli, of a beautiful new sight. So much had happened since then! He felt a vastly different person now as he stood at the same spot.

Haldir drew to a stop. For a moment, no one spoke, as if none had the strength to talk first of their departure. The silence was uncomfortable and long, and Gimli felt his heart crawling in an anxious whisper of truth. He did not want to leave Haldir behind. Perhaps it would do best to ask again if the Lórien Elf would accompany them to Rivendell. Surely Haldir would again like to see Aragorn and share with him the joy of what they had accomplished. Yet, as much as his spirit willed this to be possible, Gimli found he could not make himself voice the question. It was a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knew that this was meant to be the moment of their parting, at least for the time being.  _"Hasten to Rivendell. There you will find much you thought lost."_  Whatever waited for him in Lord Elrond's realm was not meant for Haldir. It felt almost as if their correspondence was meant to end here.

"This silence infuriates me," Haldir finally declared. His tone was clenched and cold, as if in a struggle to keep emotion from it. "So be gone. I wish not for a long and weepy farewell."

Gimli smiled in frustration. "Crazy Elf," he muttered. "You need not be so aloof now. I would like to think we have come beyond that."

Haldir did not answer. The look of indignant pain on his long face amused Gimli, and the Dwarf glanced away to hide his smirk. The emptiness came back and it remained quiet until Merry could stand it no longer. "Thank you for everything, Haldir. You've done so much for us."

The tall Elf turned to the Hobbit. The exasperation had faded from his eyes to be replaced with genuine affection. "Think nothing of it, Merry," responded Haldir. "I was doing naught but my duty to my Lady and Lord."

Merry shook his head. "You did much more than that. You had a hard spot to fill." The Hobbit said no more, but it was clear what he had meant. Haldir had taken up Legolas' role after their dear friend had been taken, and he had done so without demeaning Legolas' memory or encroaching upon the bond they had formed with the son of Thranduil during their journey. The Lórien warrior had done only what was required of him, never seeking to replace Legolas or make light of what had happened. Haldir had only been himself, and that was exactly what all of them, including Aragorn, had needed. He had maintained a clear sight.

Pippin sniffed. The small creature seemed a bit teary eyed. He extended his hand to Haldir, and the Elf slowly took it. Pippin embraced him then, and Haldir seemed a bit surprised as the Hobbit gripped him tightly. "I'll miss you, Haldir!" said Pippin in a rushed breath. "You've been such a good friend!"

The Elf pulled away after a moment, looking uncharacteristically rattled. Gimli swallowed his laugh. Quick to escape, Haldir said, "Now be off. You have a long journey ahead of you." He then helped Merry and Pippin mount the pony. Then he turned to the Dwarf. Gimli gripped Arod's saddle and Haldir gave him just enough a boost to push him atop horse.

Arod jumped about, clearly unhappy with the arrangement. Gimli hardly had time to grab the white horse's leather reins and steady himself with the infernal lurching and jerking. "Cursed beast!" shouted the Dwarf, his face reddening. Why had this horse always been so riled? It was almost as if he knew something greater was misplaced or different.

Merry and Pippin laughed at the sight of Gimli scrambling. Haldir took Arod's bridle. Long fingers stroked the horse's face tenderly, and the Lórien Elf whispered soft words to the unnerved animal. It was enough to calm him and he stilled his skittish hooves, allowing Gimli time enough to settle himself. The Dwarf grumbled to himself over the embarrassment and cursed Arod silently again. Though he had come to respect much of Elves and their ways, he would never understand how they could so love animals such as this one.

It was time to leave. Haldir rested his hand on Arod's flank. The rising sunlight caught his hair, turning it aglow with gold and gleaming yellows. His eyes were full of fond amity. "I am proud to have fought beside you," he said quietly, meeting Gimli's gaze.

"And I you," responded the Dwarf, his heart warm with Haldir's words.

"Tell the son of Arathorn that I was glad to be of use to him in his journey."

"I will."

"Keep your peace now and forever." The hand fell away. "Legolas was fortunate to have a friend so devoted as you." He turned. "As am I."

He was gone then, strolling on light feet into the woods. Gimli watched him slip into the forest, moving with such grace and elegant he seemed more a spirit. Only once did he turn back, and Merry and Pippin waved. The stoic mask had returned in that instance, but Gimli knew now that it was only a façade. Underneath the arrogance and detachment, the cold exteriors and harsh glares, Haldir had a heart as big as any.

Finally they could see him no longer. The Dwarf sighed, surprised to find he was so moved by the moment. Then again, much in these last weeks had touched his heart in ways both painful and wonderful. So much was clear to him now.

"Come," he said to his companions. He dug his heals into Arod's flanks for support and urged the stubborn beast into a light trot. "It is high time we rejoined our friends." With that, they left the Golden Wood, guided by their hearts and hopes that in Rivendell they would find much more than an end to their journey.

* * *

They were but four days from Minas Tirith, and Frodo felt no more alive than he had upon the slopes of Mount Doom. Whatever joy he had experienced then at finally accomplishing his task, at surmounting the stupendous and dangerous quest laid upon him, at being finally free from the Ring's terrible, taunting call, had not been enough to ward away the depression as he and Sam had braved a path to the kingdom of men. Likewise, the elation at again seeing Strider and Gandalf, at hearing that, despite his worst terrors, Legolas yet lived and had been taken to Rivendell for healing, at knowing Merry and Pippin were hale of heart and body and in the presence of the powerful Elves of Lórien, was doing nothing now to elevate his crushed spirit. The weight of what he had done, or nearly done, was simply too crushing.

A warm bath and good food had healed his body enough, he supposed, and sleeping appropriately in a proper bed had done wonders for his aches and pains. Though he was weary of traveling, he could not stay in Minas Tirith for all the want of his shameful spirit. Part of his brutalized heart needed to again see Legolas. Aragorn hid something from them, though Frodo was sure Sam had been simply too euphoric over the entire matter to notice the lies and sorrow lacing the ranger's words. Frodo did not have the courage to seek the truth, and he submitted to simply waiting. He did not want to know there was yet more blood covering his hands.

So they had set out. Sam's broken leg slowed their progress, and Frodo saw the frustration that this caused in Aragorn. Though the man hid it well behind empty smiles and denials of anxiety, the Hobbit knew Aragorn also felt there was much blame upon him. He wondered at all that must have happened since he parted company with the dear ranger at Edoras. He knew Boromir was dead, though he was uncertain of the circumstances. Aragorn had only explained that the son of Gondor had been killed while trying to rescue Legolas. This much at least seemed sincere, and it somehow eased Frodo's tired soul. Obviously Boromir had found his redemption. Perhaps he might as well. No longer did Frodo fault the warrior for his succumbing to the sickness of the One Ring. The Hobbit now knew the weakness borne into each of them all too well. He understood the corruption better than he ever thought possible. The demon he had once pictured Boromir to be became simply another victim, not entirely so different from himself.

The thought brought fresh pain, so he decided not to dwell on the matter. They had stopped this night in a small grove. The stars were bright above, and the night was not so cold as to need blankets or any warmth beyond that of the fire that burned within a circle of stones at the center of their little camp. Frodo sat close to it, his eyes glazed and distant in thought. Sam lay snoring beside him. The Hobbit turned to his sleeping friend tiredly, envious of Sam's easy peace. How simple this all seemed to him! Frodo darkly turned his thoughts away, returning his gaze to the dance of orange and yellow flames before him.

Aragorn was sprawled on a large, flat rock nearby. He held Andúril across his chest, his head pillowed upon his bedroll. Frodo stared blankly at him, watching him gaze up at the starry sky. He had such an intense look upon his usually lax face that Frodo felt it a crime to intrude upon his interlude. The ranger seemed to be imploring the stars for some sort of answer or absolution. Frodo shivered. Something terrible had happened to Legolas.  _You shouldn't think it,_  came the chastising voice of his mind.  _He's alive! Have hope in that. Lord Elrond surely helped him._ He thought of what he had told Sam when he had finally found his friend after days of searching Mordor. Lying about Legolas' death had come so easily, offering fake hope where there before had been none. The falsehood's comfort was alluring. Would it be so wrong to lie to himself now?

Gandalf stepped quietly to the horses. Aragorn's steed, a great brown horse by the name of Hasufel, whinnied at the wizard's gentle touch. Shadowfax grew jealous of the attention and snorted, butting his head against Gandalf's shoulder. The ancient Istar gave a low chuckle before stroking the horse's mane. He stood there a moment, still and tall, looking as well to the crystal clear sky. The stars winked beautifully in the sea of blackness. To Frodo they appeared as a million teardrops falling. "This night is quite peaceful," declared Gandalf quietly. He stepped to the fire and sat cross-legged before it, placing his staff across his knees. The white of his robes fanned about him like a sheet of snow. "Yes, and I am glad for it."

Frodo lowered his head and returned his weary, mournful gaze to the fire. The flames licked and bit at the wood with audible snapping and popping, tearing its grain and charring its insides. It sadly reminded him of his own heart. In the blaze of the Ring's possession, he had been so badly burned.

"Now, my boy," said Gandalf, his tone a gentle rumble. Frodo did not look up. Though Gandalf had become the leader of his order, both powerful and intimidating, to the Hobbit he was still the friendly, scruffy wizard that had so often in the past amazed him with tales of journeys long ago taken. Gandalf had never been anything but an affable, old man to Bilbo, and much of his uncle's perspectives had become his own. Bilbo had often complained of Gandalf's unnerving knack of convincing one to do exactly what one wishes not.  _But I took this burden upon myself. And it is mine to bear, mine and mine alone. Shall I bear it forever?_ "Frodo?"

He raised his head and met Gandalf's gaze. The wizard's eyes twinkled with a knowing mirth. "Come now, speak of what troubles you so. If your face grows any heavier, I fear it might simply fall from you!"

The joke was lost on Frodo. He looked back to the fire. He did not want to speak of the matter; it was a personal pain that was private and disgusting. The last thing he wanted at that moment was to appear a corrupted wretch before Gandalf and Aragorn. Aragorn had cast aside Boromir for such a crime. The Hobbit had no doubt that he as well deserved such a punishment. The bitter irony of it all had become achingly clear to him during the long trek back to Minas Tirith. He had cursed Boromir for attacking him, for making him feel such a helpless victim and a failure. He had damned the man for his weakness, for the greed that had so terribly destroyed them all. How high-handed and arrogant he had been. He had nearly done the same thing to Sam.

"I don't want you to know this of me," murmured Frodo finally, feeling tears build in his eyes. He settled his lowered gaze upon the stony ground, refusing to lift his head in shame. The mess of dried pine needles below his bare feet had suddenly become terribly interesting. "You will think less of me if I tell you."

"I will do no such thing," corrected Gandalf, a slight tone of admonishment in his voice. "Now tell me of it. If you do not, I can do nothing to help you." Frodo did not meet his gaze, frightened of the disgust he feared might come to it. In the silence the chatter of the fire was so loud. There was the swish of moving cloth as Gandalf stood. The old wizard resettled himself beside the small creature. "Silence is so much more painful than the truth."

The open and accepting look in Gandalf's eyes was too much a comfort to his hurt spirit, and the words spilled from his shaking lips. His voice was weak and quivering, somehow alien to his ears. "I failed you," he finally admitted. "I failed you and I failed Sam. I failed Bilbo." He sighed, feeling a sob threaten him. "Worst of all, I failed myself."

Gandalf's response was gentle and knowing. "Now why would you think such a thing?" he asked.

Frodo sucked in a wheezing breath. "I tried to take it from him," he said, his head tipped a bit as he stared into the fire, tears shining in his eyes. "I… wanted the Ring so very badly at the end. I swear I tried so very hard to fight it, but I wasn't strong enough. It wouldn't let me see it destroyed. It was as though I lost control of my body and mind, and it made me do terrible things. I didn't want to!" The words came faster and faster, and he could do nothing to stop them. He looked glumly to Sam. "I nearly killed him, Gandalf. I would have done it to get the Ring. If not for Sam… and Gollum… I don't know what would have happened."

Silence. Frodo lingered, wondering how the great wizard would perceive this terrible knowledge. The small creature did not know if his heart could weather his friend's rejection. "It is not for you to wonder about," Gandalf said. "There are many paths in life. No one can say for certain which is the best or safest. Hindsight oft proves the most painful of all views." The wizard clasped his shoulder. "You need not let his hamper you, young Frodo. In the end, all became as it should."

"How can I not think of it, Gandalf?" demanded Frodo, his eyes now blazing in anger. It seemed so unfair that the wizard sought to simply brush aside his shame. "Don't you see? Boromir attacked me and took the Ring, and I cursed him for it. I blamed him for what he did to me, for what he did to all of us. I thought him a weak coward that stole what he did not rightfully possess. And then I… I did the very same to Sam! I knew of the disease, of the corruption, but I haughtily believed myself to be above it." Frodo's voice died in his throat and he shook his head. "Sam does not fault me for what I have done, and this grieves me deeply. I am no better than Boromir. Don't I deserve the same hate, the same disgust?" He shook his head, his eyes dark, his face scowling. "Though Boromir I imagine found his redemption when he saved Legolas. There's no way I can atone for what I did."

The wizard did not speak immediately, and Frodo did not have the courage to look at him. The truth was laid bare, horrible in its implications. The Hobbit sat still, tears blurring his vision, waiting for judgment. "This will stay with you a long time, Frodo." Gandalf's voice was serious and regretful. "We each have made our mistakes upon this journey. The true strength of friendship allows us to look past our wrongs. Sam does not fault you because he cannot. He sees you with the eyes of a brother, of a steadfast companion who knows your strengths and weaknesses. We are who we are, no more and no less. And as Sam loves you, he understands this." Gandalf looked to their left where Aragorn lay. The ranger still watched the sky, oblivious to their quiet conversation. "Aragorn suffers a guilt as well, one not terribly dissimilar from yours. For many years he has held the tightest bond with Legolas. The Elf forfeited much it seems for the sake of Middle Earth, and Aragorn blames himself for denying their friendship and choosing instead his duty. He fears Legolas will not forgive him for that."

Gandalf sighed, as if weary of standing tall amidst the pain of others. His hand found Frodo's and grasped it tightly. "Much has occurred to test the ties between us. Lives had been lost and souls sullied. Hearts have been broken. Yet this is behind us now, and everything will be as it is meant to be. We have all suffered too much to let ourselves be dismayed by our own helpless guilt. Know this. Atone for what you must, and accept what you cannot. See things for what they are. A clear sight is what we all need," he declared sagely.

They were silent a moment. The fire burned warmly and the night was bright with celestial glow. The moon and stars shed a peaceful, pale light upon them, and Frodo felt it ease his heart. Sam snored louder in the quiet, rolling over in his blankets. He smiled, and Frodo felt a grin twist his own lips. What was his dear friend dreaming, he wondered. Of the Shire? Of the Hobbit lass Rose Cotton? Frodo felt better as he pondered something he had not previously considered. He could go home. When all was said and done, he would be among his family and friends again. He pictured the Shire, luscious and green, ancient and peaceful. His heart suddenly ached in anxiety; how he longed to return there! Familiar people and places, open arms and quiet days… He knew he would not be the same, but returning to the Shire would be enough to heal him. A normal life once seemed so impossible. Now it could be his again.

He looked up. It seemed an unspoken promise, this hope he held within him. Perhaps he could overcome this and wipe away the ugly stain upon his heart. Perhaps Sam was right not to blame or doubt. He had carried the Ring quite far and long lasted beneath its smothering grasp. He came to a small epiphany then as he beheld his dear friend's sleeping form. Gandalf was right. This guilt would long be part of him; he did not know if he could ever rationalize it or shed it. But he could not allow it to tether him to the past. What was done was done, and in the end, they had succeeded in their quest. Little more than that was needed.

Frodo wiped away his tears and returned his gaze to Gandalf. He smiled feebly. "Thank you," he murmured, feeling genuine relief enclose him in a warm embrace. The wizard grinned and nodded.

"Of course, Frodo. Bilbo will be quite proud of you, I imagine," Gandalf declared, squeezing Frodo's hand. "In fact, I daresay he will be overcome with joy to know that you triumphed. We all are, Frodo." The pain stopped. The wound closed, and Frodo escaped the shadow and embraced the sun. "We all are."

* * *

Rivendell was much as Aragorn remembered it. It seemed that the terrible war had not touched the beautiful sanctum. The river Bruinen rushed through the city the same this day as millions prior, spilling the clearest, coolest water against ancient rock. The trees were just beginning to turn from bright greens to yellow, shedding a leaf now and then on a gale strong enough. The buildings stood tall and proud, constructed protectively into the side of the gorge. Their remarkable and breath-taking architecture had not suffered much these last months, for the pillars and terraces remained as smooth and flawless as ever. In fact, time itself had barely passed in the Elvish kingdom, the city and its inhabitants picturesque and unblemished by the destruction and chaos elsewhere in Middle Earth. The reality of it at once hurt and heartened the ranger. It relieved him to know that the fighting had not compromised the security of his home. It also disturbed him, for seeing how unchanged Rivendell was reminded him of how very different many things were.

As they had neared Elrond's kingdom, his thoughts had fled him, and he could do nothing but concentrate on the overwhelming anxiety to know the truth. The others had sensed his urgency and stilled their conversation. He had ridden with Frodo and had felt the Hobbit's tension as the paths had become more familiar, marking their proximity to Rivendell. Clearly all hearts were centered upon what awaited them in Elrond's House. The truth had dangled before them, and concentrating on the road was all Aragorn could do not to scream his frustration.

Now they moved without thinking. The last few minutes had been a blur. Upon Hasufel and Shadowfax, their small group had descended the winding road into the Elvish city. None had the strength to speak, the silence deafening and laden with unwanted fear and unspoken hope. Finally they reached their destination.

The stables were nearly empty. One of the hands lazed about, singing to himself a particularly frivolous tune of a love lost. Aragorn smiled in spite of his anxiety at the sight. Upon seeing the companions, the Elf stood quickly. His fair face opened in shock. "Lord Estel!" he shouted, a wide smile coming to his countenance. He rushed forward across the hay-covered floor and grabbed Hasufel's bridle. "Welcome home, my Lord!"

Aragorn lowered Frodo to the ground before dismounting himself. He bowed briefly before the tall Elf. "Please send a page to alert Lord Elrond of our arrival," he gently ordered. Though many of the Elves in Rivendell considered him to be kin of Lord Elrond and thus their superior, Aragorn had never quite acclimated himself to this power. It felt somehow inappropriate to demand things of these kind, wise people when he was not their leader and held no claim to their allegiance. Still, they were willing to comply, and the stable hand called forth two helpers to assist with the horses while he sought a messenger.

The ranger clasped Frodo on the shoulder. The Hobbit seemed a bit bewildered and lost in this great city. There was a ruckus behind them and a loud, elated gasp. "Bill!" cried Sam. Both Aragorn and Frodo turned.

The stout Gamgee sprinted as best he could with his injured leg to one of the stalls. Aragorn found himself staring in disbelief, wondering how such a thing could be possible. Bill the pony whinnied at the attention as Sam wrapped his arms around the animal's neck. "Oh, Bill! Bill! How glad I am to see you!"

Such a sight! It brought joy inexplicably to Aragorn's heart. He remembered standing outside the gray entrance to Moria, the night full and heavy upon them. Each member of the Fellowship knew the dangers that awaited him within those black, ancient caves. Sam had seemed most unsure of his courage, and parting with the faithful and friendly pony had made matters no easier, for the Hobbit had become quite attached to Bill since leaving Rivendell. Aragorn had promised Sam that Bill would return to the great city on his own. These words, while good intentioned, were not anything he himself had believed. The road was long and treacherous, and it seemed unlikely any horse could navigate them.

Stranger things had happened, he decided. He laughed. "It seems brave Bill did know his way home!" he declared jovially. Frodo smiled widely. Gandalf took Sam's shoulder as the Hobbit pulled himself away from Bill.

Then they were walking. Aragorn pulled Sam into his arms so the Hobbit would not stress his injury. The ranger led them by instinct, the haze of anxiety and excited worry coming to again squeeze his heart in a vice. Familiar faces and sights were a blur as they rapidly walked to Lord Elrond's chambers; Aragorn's heart thundered and he found it hard to breathe. He wanted to run and only the smallest inkling of respect and decorum kept him from racing to his destination.

They reached the great meeting hall. Elladan and Elrohir were waiting, having obviously been summoned by the page. Aragorn's heart throbbed in euphoria at seeing the two tall, brunette twins. He stopped, winded, and set Sam gently to the ground. "Elladan! Elrohir!"

The twins approached quickly and each embraced him heartily. Aragorn held tight to both of them, feeling tears burn his eyes. How very good it felt to be with them again! His dearest friends! They had always been so supportive of him, offering him encouragement, training him to become the warrior he had. In truth, there were times during this conflict that he doubted he might ever again see them. Now he nearly floundered in weary relief.

Elladan smiled as he pulled back from Aragorn's embrace. "You have done so well, Estel! So very well!" he declared proudly, speaking in Westron for the sake of the Hobbits. The Elf prince looked behind his foster brother to Gandalf, his eyes twinkling in mirth and happiness. "Has he not, Gandalf? Look at the king he has become!"

Gandalf nodded firmly, one hand on each of the Hobbit's shoulders. "That he has," declared the wizard. Sam and Frodo watched silently, each grinning though they knew little of the exchange. Sam leaned upon Frodo for support once more, and the sight of his injury reminded Aragorn of their urgency.

Grasping Elladan's shoulders, he locked his stormy gaze upon that of the Elf. "Tell me, where is Arwen? Where is Legolas?" he implored softly in Elvish, wishing to spare the others any pain the conversation might inflict.

Elladan's face fell considerably, his eyes growing dark with grief and worry. Aragorn felt the energy leave his body, his spirits tumbling deep into shadow at the dismal sight. Elrohir, ever quick with words, covered in his twin's faltering moment. "Arwen is well, Estel. She and Father are with Legolas. Come, we will take you to them."

Aragorn felt brittle then, like glass cracked and shattering. Elrohir took Sam's hand and helped the hobbled creature follow them as Elladan led them deeper into the manor. The ranger tensed as they walked, feeling the dark aura suffocating the joy in this place. The depression was a heavy veil, shrouding the light and peace that Aragorn had come to associate with his Elrond's House. It chilled him; he felt his soul shrivel and cry.

They stopped at one of the chambers. Elladan glanced at Elrohir, communicating with eyes and thoughts. Aragorn had often found their silent connection irritating in the past, for they used it often to understand each other in a manner to which he was never privy. Yet now he only watched anxiously, yearning that there could somehow still be hope. He was clinging to the last of his faith. "I will summon him," said Elladan, and the Elf lightly stepped inside the closed room.

A heavy silence descended upon them. Aragorn rubbed his brow with shaking hands, cold sweat collecting at the small of his back. The room felt tight and hot though through the open windows a cool wind entered. No one was brave enough to speak, and the emptiness was powerful. It mirrored the silence of his own anxious heart.

Then the doors creaked open. Aragorn jerked his gaze upward. Elrond stood at the door, Elladan beside him. The Half-Elf was adorned in red, velvet robes, his long, brown hair secured in a royal fashion. His circlet he bore proudly upon his high brow. Aragorn nearly felt his body shudder as he beheld Elrond again. Given a different time with better circumstances, he might have embraced his mentor and reveled to be again in Elrond's care. As it was, his quaking heart let him have no such pleasures, and the words fled his mouth before he could even think. "Is Legolas well? May we see him?"

The initial joy that shone in Elrond's eyes faded at the inquiry, replaced by a solemn sadness. "I cannot say," he admitted, his voice calm but grave. Aragorn could not dare to think even, praying with all his being that somehow Legolas would be cured yet. "Gandalf," began the powerful healer, nodding at the ancient wizard, "it much pleases me to see you again."

"And I you, Lord Elrond," stated the wizard. His impassive face revealed little of what he thought of the situation. He left Sam and Frodo beside Aragorn and stepped close to the Elf. He whispered something quietly, and Aragorn grew frustrated and irritated when he could not decipher the private words. Yet the ranger did naught but bite his tongue to stifle his anger. Elrond nodded at whatever Gandalf said, and wizard stepped inside the room.

Elrond looked to the two Hobbits. His smooth face was expressionless, but the pride in his eyes was evident. "It seems, Mister Baggins, that you have succeeded in your quest. I commend you."

Frodo smiled feebly. "Thank you, Lord Elrond," he answered despondently, "but I can't be very happy about it knowing Legolas is so sick." Aragorn cringed inwardly, suddenly and painfully reminded that the two Hobbits knew nothing of the truth behind Legolas' condition. The ranger had lied about it, obscuring the terrible reality to spare them from the pain.

Elrond merely nodded at the comment, his face placid. To Sam he said, "Shall I care for your leg, Mister Gamgee?"

Sam thought a moment, and then vehemently shook his head. "No, sir, I'd like to wait a bit and see Mister Legolas, if you don't mind," decided the stout creature. His round face was tough with his own sort of duty. "He did a lot for me, and I think I'd be doing him a disservice if I didn't respect that."

"Fair enough," Elrond said, smiling tenderly at the two. The mask of stoicism had receded just a bit, revealing Elrond's wonderful and compassionate nature. It was a side of the great Lord that few had the pleasure of seeing. It was also the part of him that Aragorn appreciated so dearly. "It seems that you all have strength enough to offer the prince. That is good; he desperately is in need of your love."

No one answered, each silent with painful understanding. Aragorn lowered his gaze. His body felt weak and useless, his nerves so riled that he could barely stop himself from shivering. He felt a hand come to grasp his shoulder, and he looked up. Elrond's eyes were wide and open, fathomless in age and wisdom. His grip was firm. "I am very proud of you," he said in Elvish, his voice comforting and kind. Aragorn's vision grew blurry with tears, and he swallowed the painful lump in his throat. He felt a youth again, so very small and insignificant, so unworthy of Elrond's praise. "You did what fate asked of you and returned to your rightful path. You have restored faith in men. Never doubt the value of what you have done."

Aragorn's voice would not come, so he simply nodded. Elrond's fingers squeezed his shoulder before releasing him. The Elf Lord returned to the chamber. Then the silence descended.

The man did not know how much time passed. It seemed a torturous eternity, and the turmoil within beat and brutalized his heart. The anxiety became a hammer that pounded his resolve. The anguish was unending. He could find no reprieve. No thoughts came to him, no memories to ease his howling soul. Instead he lingered in a fog of fear and terror, of love and loss. He worried he would never break free, that this torment of sluggish time would never end.

The door finally pushed open. Aragorn snapped to attention, the world jerking into motion around him, and he felt dizzy. Gandalf emerged from the room, softly closing the door behind them. Was this it? Would he finally know the truth?

All eyes were upon Gandalf. The wizard sighed softly and tiredly, his face ashen and lax. His eyes were filled with such sadness and defeat, the sort that Aragorn not often witnessed in him. The ranger knew it inside. The wizard began to speak. "A black curse of the darkest magic has been laid upon him. Its roots go deep into his heart and soul, strangling his light. It has crushed most of his spirit, and for an Elf that is a terrible thing. The magic is dark and ancient, unfamiliar to me though I dove deeply into Legolas' mind for answers." The wizard winced from a pain he decided not to share. "The dark aura about him is powerful indeed. It… it acts as a shield of sorts, a barrier that blocks from his heart the songs of nature and Middle Earth upon which Elves, especially Silvan Elves, thrive. Without them he is lost, mortal." Aragorn heard the words but could make no sense of them, his mind numb with overwhelming grief. "There is nothing I can do," Gandalf admitted at last, his tone low and melancholic. He lowered his eyes as if in sad shame.

Rage burst inside Aragorn, rage hotter than the sun and more violent than a thousand armies. "No!" he gasped, his eyes burning, his gaze piercing. "There must be something! Gandalf, please!  _Please!_ "

The wizard's gaze appeared almost watery. "I wish there was, Aragorn. But I cannot lift from him this torture. It is an intricate and clever beast deeply set into Legolas. I fear only the hand of the one who placed it upon him could remove it, and Saruman is dead."

_No!_

His body was tingling with pounding despair. He suddenly could not hear or feel. His legs grew weak, his joints buckled, and he fell, slamming to the floor hard on his knees. Elrohir was immediately beside him, his arm wrapped around the ranger's shoulder comfortingly. The pain and sorrow that had plagued Aragorn since losing Legolas at Amon Hen suddenly became too much to bear, and the tears poured from his eyes. He could not remember the last time he had cried so hard, and his soul shivered and shook with waves of anguish.

"What does this mean?" asked Sam, his youthful face wide with anger and confusion. His eyes were blazing as he looked between the distraught ranger and Gandalf. "Does that mean…"

Frodo was still and silent, fat tears slipping from his blue eyes and rolling down his face. He said nothing, beaten by this news. White as a ghost, his hope withered before their eyes. Elladan shook his head sadly and diverted his gaze, as if somehow the guilt lay with him.

Sam was furious, struggling valiantly not to believe what Gandalf had said. "But Elves are immortal, Gandalf… You told me so many times! Saruman couldn't have been so strong to change something so fundamental… could he?"

Gandalf brushed his large hand over the top of his head, smoothing back his white hair. "I do not know, Sam. I do not believe it was so simple a matter of stealing Legolas' spirit; that I do believe is impossible." The ancient Istar shook his head. "I do not think this curse is real…" Aragorn looked up, his eyes shining in intense interest. He was leaping at any spot of hope. Gandalf grimaced. "I find this difficult to explain. It is an illusion, if you will. A guise. To him and to any who perceive him, he is mortal, dulled and deprived. Yet I do not believe his blood and birthright are so much gone as they are hidden from him. I cannot think otherwise! As you said, Samwise, Saruman could not change something so basic as Ilüvatar's gifts to his children. All powers of good and evil must balance, for they are all of the same making. Nothing exists without Ilüvatar's consent. I doubt there is no way to remove it!"

Aragorn dared to hope again. He jumped to his feet. "Then what must we do?" he asked, his voice rough with emotion. "I will do anything! Sacrifice anything!"

Gandalf sighed once more as he met Aragorn's gaze. "The great evil done to Legolas must be countered by a strong measure of good. But this measure of good cannot come from us, I fear. It must come from him. I explained that I believe this curse hides from him the things he needs. It feeds upon his despair, his anger, his anguish. It grows stronger when he loses hope. It is a vile demon that preys upon the sorrow it has inflicted: the self-loathing Legolas now feels. He is trapped in a world of nightmare and shade, of memories of things best left unspoken, of shame at what he has become. I have seen this world, and it is a terrible one." The wizard stepped forward and grabbed Aragorn's shoulder. "There is nothing we can do for him other than offer our support. He must fight this himself. His spirit is nearly destroyed, and he barely yearns for life at all. This is the curse's true power. If he wishes to die, he will, but not of mortal ailing. Of a broken heart."

The ranger was beginning to understand, to clearly see the true menacing intent of what had been done to his dearest friend. He was right so many days back to think that Saruman would not have the strength to break the will of an Elf, let alone one so powerful and proud as Legolas. Yet the clever, demented wizard had devised a heinous way to do just that. Aragorn's fury was burning him, eating at his control, and he clenched and unclenched his fists subconsciously.

It was silent for perhaps a moment while each contemplated what Gandalf had revealed. Then the wizard again spoke. "If we wish to help Legolas, we must love him, for that is what he needs more than anything. A reason to live becomes a reason to fight." Gandalf's deep eyes sought his, firm in vigor, offering faith once more. "Legolas is strong, even if he does not now believe it. If there is a way to break this curse, he will find it."

Love would be the strength to defy. Aragorn would see to it. The king wiped the tears from his cheeks. He drew in a deep, cleansing breath to compose himself. He felt his hands shake in nervousness and wished with all his heart that he might be strong and brave. Legolas needed it.  _I swore I would never let you fall. I promised to protect you always! I am sorry it has taken me so long to keep my oath._

He felt a tug at his pants and broke from his reverie. Frodo regarded him with wide eyes. "We can help him," said the Hobbit softly, his eyes wide and strong. Aragorn felt reassured by his resolution. It was wonderful to see Frodo so persevering again. His small hand found Aragorn's. "Together I know we can."

"Strider, everything we did, everything that happened, happened because  _he_  took the Ring back from Boromir," Sam said. "If not for him, we would have lost. We have to help him."

Aragorn released a slow breath. "Of course, Sam," he finally said. Everything began to throb, and his vision blurred with fresh tears. Why did those words seem such a lie? He banished his doubts then and forced himself to have strength. He could not afford to be weak or pessimistic.

His pressed his palm to the doorknob. The moment for which he had longed had finally come. Beyond this door lie the answers to his fears, to his unending worries. It was the completion of this torment. Yet as he stood there, he felt fresh pain spike within him, and his fingers grew weak in their grasp. Things would never be the same. He feared for Legolas and their friendship, concerned that in this moment his dear companion would not forgive him his broken promise. The fruit of his crimes was also behind these doors. He did not know if he had the courage to face what he had done.

Gandalf's great hand closed over his on the handle. "Do not falter now," spoke the wizard in a hushed tone. "Do not forget that you have suffered as well! Be his brother. That is all you need do."

These words were enough to give him strength, and slowly he pushed open the door. Now he would see.


	32. At Last an Absolution

The door creaked open, the sound low and slow, almost hesitant. Legolas drew in a shaking breath to calm himself, but it was no use. The sobs threatened him, the tears burning and stinging in his eyes, and he nearly collapsed to the floor. It was taking all of his strength to stand now, and he was too weary in mind and body to do much else but lean tiredly into the wall.

He did not want to look behind him. He knew who it was; the presence was powerful and knowing. Light, tentative footfalls. The sound of shuffling feet. The tears coursed down his face, and he angrily wiped them away. How dare they come now? How dare they presume to see him after Gandalf had slashed his final hopes of recovery? The darkness within choked him with rage and grief. Somehow he found his voice. "Tell them to leave," he hissed, his red eyes narrowed.

A hand fell upon his shoulder and he flinched instinctively. He imagined the hurt on Arwen's beautiful face, the pain and grief in her eyes. Some part of him that was not smothered by the curse and despair throbbed at the thought of distressing her, but he felt terribly defensive. Self-preservation destroyed his concern. "I do not want to see them!"

"Legolas," a deep, familiar voice said. Legolas stiffened and leaned harder into the wall. The illumination from the window beside him was so very bright, and it hurt his eyes. It bled light into everything; there was no place to hide. The stone of the wall felt cool and comforting to his forehead, and he pressed his palms against it. If only he could just slip into it, into its concealing shadows and fade away from this world… He did not have the strength to face the undeniable truth.

Upon seeing Gandalf, he had been overcome with the strongest hope he had had since falling into Saruman's grasp. In the rush of what had happened, he had not known that Gandalf had ascended to become the White, the most powerful of all Istari. His heart had leapt at the sight of the ancient wizard, and he had shrugged off Arwen's restraining holds to stand and greet Mithrandir himself. In the last few days he had begun to feel better, well enough at least to stand and walk a bit. Lord Elrond and Arwen permitted him no strenuous activity, and though his pride shriveled at their restrictions, he knew them to be right. He fully felt the physical effects of the vile curse now. He wound burned and ached hideously. He struggled to simply walk correctly. So easily would he become queasy at the sight and smell of food. His head often and inexplicably grew filled with a pounding agony so strong that he heard a phantom shrill ringing. Before wounds such as these would not have hindered him for so long. Now he found his body aching, constantly weak, and uncoordinated in movement. His limbs were heavy and disjointed, and at times the simple act of standing became such a trying ordeal that he felt utterly disgusted by his sweat and fatigue. He knew Lord Elrond kept much from him, for even though he was now deprived of heightened senses, the sadness and worry was clear enough in the Half-Elf's normally calm gaze. He could sense the powerful healer's helplessness as though it was a tangible force. Still, the smallest bit of his heart had somehow retained faith throughout his ordeal, and he made a silent vow to himself that he would not abandon all hope until the last chances were gone.

It appeared that now such finality had come. He had been warm with optimism for the first time in what seemed to be forever when Gandalf had entered his room. When the wizard's eyes betrayed his shock and doubt, Legolas had begun to worry. Gandalf laid his weathered fingertips against Legolas' face much the same way Saruman had before defiling him, and he had nearly screamed in traumatic memory. It had taken all his will to control the terror, to keep himself tethered to reality, for the painful scene was horridly vivid and he thought himself back at the instance when he had been turned mortal. Yet Gandalf's presence within him had been warm and comforting as he probed Legolas' spirit for the source of his affliction. Nothing could have prepared him for the crushing disappointment.

He knew it now in his bones. It had become his existence, this grim truth.

Gandalf could not help him. No one could.

The hot tears spilled down his face and he angrily scrubbed his eyes, rubbing the soft skin until it was red and raw. How he hated this weakness! How he hated this all! "Legolas, please…" Arwen breathed.

"I have no wish to see them," snapped Legolas, shrugging away from her grasp. His emotions were such a muddled mess, and the pain was clouding his mind. He did want to see Aragorn, his dearest friend, in this his darkest moment. He wanted the comfort and security of his companion's steadfast strength and understanding. However, the vengeful pain would allow him no such release.  _He did this to you,_  hissed the contemptuous voice of the shadow.  _He left you to this fate! Would you now embrace him?_ Astaldogald's demeaning words filled his mind, ringing in his ears, and he moaned for their strength.  _"Now you cry for the one that betrayed you."_  Was he truly so weak, so confused? His brother's death was something he had not previously spent much time contemplating, for then there had still been some amount of hope, no matter how miniscule. But now there was nothing but shadow, and he was beginning to concede for the first time in his life that Astaldogald might have been right.  _Ai, Astaldogald…_

He could not think this. He should not. It would be the final admission of defeat to blame Aragorn for his suffering. In doing so, he would abandon his heart, his self, for it was his brotherly love for Aragorn that had given him strength. It would make wrong the very basis of all for which he had fought. There was a great war within him, two sides torn by love and hate, by loss and pain. One demanded that he turn around and accept his friend, that he accept the truth for what it was and live what he had left of his life without regret. The other denied all recognition and wallowed in the misery, desperate to defeat the cold reality with hot anger. Legolas moaned through clenched teeth, the sound low and desperate, and pressed his palms to his temples as if the turmoil of his mind caused him physical duress. He just wished to understand what he felt again!

There was silence then, the beating of his thoughts mercifully ceasing. He stood, his tear-stained eyes blearily gazing out the open window. His head throbbed and he winced at the brightness. It was a beautiful day outside, the air crisp and sweet with the aroma of falling leaves. Sunlight fell over everything, bringing the beauty of Rivendell to life with an ethereal glow. It only hurt Legolas' eyes. He felt unworthy to behold such majesty. These trees, once so much companions to his soul, were silent. In his gaze they leaned away from him, as if repulsed by the stink of the shadow that clung to his body. He whimpered in absolute despair.

They were all watching him. He felt their eyes, their stares, their shock. It seemed a powerful force ramming against him, beating him into the wall, and he sagged, leaning against the windowsill. Their concern. Their grief. The anger within surged once more, and his voice was seething. "I neither want nor need your pity," he hissed.

"I do not come offering it, my friend," Aragorn responded. "There is naught worth my pity."

"You lie, Aragorn!" cried Legolas in fury. He turned then, as if to reveal himself plainly and cast truth to his words. He met Aragorn's gaze, and for the first time since Amon Hen, the two friends stood and stared at each other. The others were still, silent, watching expectantly for some sign of the familiar camaraderie they had all come to associate with the two to reappear. Would Aragorn now apologize and find repentance? Would Legolas now forgive and find peace? Could this wound close, this pain heal, this rift between them disappear in understanding?

Legolas narrowed his gaze. He felt it radiating from Aragorn, as though the ranger was straining to say all he wished to without speaking a single word. Long had he learned to read his dear friend, and it was clear from the turmoil in the stormy grey eyes that Aragorn badly suffered a great guilt and shame. Legolas' heart shook at the sight of Aragorn's anguish, but again he was too pained to easily accept the other's voiceless plea. "I cried for your help, Aragorn," he hissed in Elvish. "Upon those shores, they beat me! Had you come, I would have been saved!"

"You know the matter was not so simple," Aragorn countered. "I had a duty, the same duty you so many times in the past encouraged me to accept. You cannot now fault me for finally embracing what you so plainly believed to be my destiny!"

Legolas snapped, "I had a duty as well, Aragorn. A duty to protect you. Do you not remember this? It was a foolish promise made in a ludicrous moment of brotherhood. We bound ourselves together in this promise. I have paid a dire price for trusting you, son of Arathorn, and even still I kept my oath to you. I even forsook my brothers for your sake! And you… You killed Astaldogald!"

"He would have murdered you, Legolas, in cold blood!" Aragorn retorted. The fact obviously harmed the ranger greatly, but his pride would not allow him to simply succumb to the guilt. "I have not forgotten our vow. It has plagued me with shame and guilt since Amon Hen. Every step of this terrible journey I have known its pressing insistences. I ignored your warnings on the shores of the Anduin, do you not remember?"

"Of course I remember," said Legolas. "My trust in you has always been the strongest bond of faith and brotherhood. I must have been foolish to expect the same from you. I would not forget this betrayal!"

"I did not betray you! Do not turn upon me rage meant for another!"

Fire burned in Legolas' eyes. The fury turned his heart into a racing thunder. "Boromir made more of an attempt to help me than  _you_  did, you who calls yourself my brother. He died a valiant and noble death, and I will not have you besmirch that!"

Aragorn shook his head in sad confusion. The scathing comment had clearly left him reeling. Finally he spoke. "It was not for lack of want that I did not come to you. Believe me this, I so desperately yearned to find you! This guilt has been a black murk poisoning my very soul. Do not make light of what I endured, Legolas! Abandoning my promise to you was no easy task!"

Legolas laughed. The sound was twisted and cruel. "Do you suppose that keeping my promise to you was any less terrible a duty? Do you expect me to forgive you this?" He shook his head, his body quivering in emotion. Aragorn was white, his face a haunted picture of pain and remorse. "Clearly you do, for you have come here to seek my acceptance. You will not find it, do you hear? You offer me naught but pity! Poor Legolas! Poor, dear Legolas! An Elf no longer, but a wretch in the shadows! What say you, son of Arathorn? Have you anything aside from your stupid pity?"

Anger flashed in Aragorn's eyes and his sympathetic, teary gaze became a glare. "You speak harshly, son of Thranduil," he said, adopting a tone of formality. "For one so abhorrent of pity, you readily award it to yourself."

Rage colored Legolas' face unnaturally. "How dare you?" A sobbing cough painfully pushed its way up his throat, but he swallowed it. "How can you presume to judge me?" Aragorn flinched. "You left me to his tortures… And now I am nothing! And I yearned for but one thing, Aragorn. One thing! And this you denied me!" He sensed Arwen stiffen. Her head was bowed, tears streaming from her eyes. Vaguely he recalled through his haze of pain and anger a soft conversation he had overhead between Lord Elrond and his daughter. It had clearly not been meant for his ears, and he had lain in bed, pretending to be asleep, as Arwen had expressed her fears to her father over this very fight that was now taking place. He had been somewhat resentful of their smothering concerns, but now he knew them to be it well founded. She had softly explained how Aragorn had appeared in the healer's quarters in Minas Tirith carrying Legolas' battered form, of their attempts to heal him, of what Legolas himself had whispered in a moment of lucidity. He remembered little of the event. It was a blur of agony, terror, and sorrow, but he did recall what he had asked of Arwen and Aragorn. Neither had granted him it. The anger was fresh and powerful. "I wanted naught else but to be spared the pain of this existence-"

"It is not so painful, Legolas," declared Aragorn in a rushed, reassuring tone. The ranger shook his head helplessly. "You live yet, and there is great value in that! There is always a chance!"

"Nay, there is no chance! Gandalf said as much! Yet you would have me struggle with this… this curse till the end of my now numbered days! I had resigned myself to death, Aragorn. After Boromir… was killed, I settled all my spirit upon the one task he asked of me with his last, dying breath: to protect you. In doing such, I was releasing myself from this terrible shadow around me. I was ready to leave this world." He shook his head, the words coming faster and faster. His friend regarded him with wide eyes, clearly muddled and shocked. The ranger looked to his lover with an imploring glare, the grey orbs glistening with fears of betrayal. Arwen refused to meet Aragorn's gaze.

Legolas lowered his tone. The heat of the argument made the melody of Sindarin sound utterly vulgar. "I asked you. I  _begged_  you not to help me. Yet you forced life back into my heart and body, and in doing so, gave me hope. That hope has now been cruelly ripped away, and I have lost my chance for peace! Tell me, Aragorn, where is the worth in this existence?"

"There is worth, Legolas, even if you choose not to see it."

"It is not a matter of choice. It is a matter of fact! Look upon me!  _Look_  and tell me what you see!" he roared. Aragorn faltered then and dropped his gaze. Legolas wondered how strangely he must have appeared. His long blond hair, now at least clean, he wore in the same, simple tail Aratadarion had fashioned so many days back. The braids he traditionally wore as a symbol of his strength and pride as an Elven warrior were absent. He was terribly thin, having lost quite a bit of substance during his captivity and subsequent struggles. He seemed a ghost, his skin so pale and his body weak with the weight of recovery and depression. He knew he looked nothing like he once had. The vigor had left his dull eyes, the glow of his kind departing him as though his body was no longer a fit vessel for it. He was dark with this curse, dark and disgusting. Aragorn obviously thought as much, for he could not conjure forth the strength to even so much as look upon the shade his friend had become.

Legolas felt his anger dissipate in grief as he realized the implications of the torturously long and silent moment. "Yes," he whispered, his ashen lips hardly moving. He raised his shaking hands before his eyes, placing all his weight upon the wall behind him. The hands seemed to be not his own, thin and bruised. Though it an eternity had passed since he had finally cut himself free of his bonds, he could still vaguely observe the red marks the ropes and chains had left upon his wrists. His knuckles were still scraped and bruised, and he clenched his fists. There was no strength in the grasp, and his arms quivered in the strain, his left still weak from the healing fracture. He watched in a pained and paralyzed state, wondering foolishly where the calm strength he had once had in his hands had gone. Would he ever again be able to wield a bow as he had? Thousands of years of practice and experience, honing talent into deadly precision… it was all gone.

For some reason, this seemingly insignificant fact became paramount to his dilemma. The tears came unbidden, and he lowered his head, ashamed of them and of his display. The tangled web of emotions and memories grew more a mess. He felt as though he was riding tumultuous waves of the sea; at one moment he was angry, hotly furious at his plight, and in the next he was utterly destroyed. "Elbereth…" he moaned, hiding his face in his hands. "There is nothing to see now!"

He buried himself in the anguish, letting go in its rushing currents, and for a moment he felt nothing but the hot tears flooding from eyes squeezed shut. Then a hand grasped his shoulder. The contact was repulsive. He recoiled instinctively, shrugging away and hastily stepping forward in escape. This motion was too abrupt for his healing body, and a piercing pain shot like a bolt of lightning from his weakened foot and up his leg, settling in his lower chest where he still nursed bruised ribs. It was enough to spill him to the floor, and his knee buckled, sending him down.

He slipped in and out of a nightmare. They were all around him, their faces dark and shrouded. Irrationally, he grew frightened, recalling terrible sights of the Uruk-hai crowding hungrily around him and leering at the thought of hurting him. But the holds upon him were not painful or restraining. They were merely seeking to assist him. His weakness only disgusted him more. When did an Elf prince ever require the aid of others to simply stand? "Leave me be," he choked out, batting them away, struggling to be free of them. "I do not need help!"

But he did. He wanted it terribly, so strongly his soul shook as it yearned for relief. In the swirling tempest of emotion, he could not parse reality from memory or dream, and his body ached terribly. Though his mind spoke differently, his heart reached out for some source of solace. For the very same hope he once sought to abandon.

Aragorn draped an arm over Legolas' shuddering shoulders and pulled his distraught friend to his chest. Legolas collapsed into the man's embrace. He wept piteously, shirking all thought of decorum or appearance, and let his pain flee him on each shivering, deep sob. It was the first time in what seemed to be forever that he had cried so freely. When his mother had died, he had found a quiet place in Mirkwood's dark forests. He had climbed to the top of the tallest tree and sobbed his misery and grief, embraced by the leaves and limbs. He had found no support in his family. The shock and rage left his father unapproachable. Vardaithil had thrown himself entirely into his princely duties, ignoring the wound and leaving it to fester in sorrow and hatred. Aratadarion and Astaldogald found in each other a peace and understanding that they selfishly did not share with their youngest sibling. So Legolas had gone to the ancient trees, finding love and understanding in them. When it came to matters concerning his kin, he had always borne his pain in solitude.

Still, he was glad then for Aragorn's presence, content now to pour forth his anguish in the comfort of his dear friend. He had kept it inside him for so long, this horror and wrath and heartache, and it had poisoned him. There had been no one to understand him. Now he was with Aragorn again, his closest friend, a partner to his soul. Now he could release his hurt.

He did not know how long he cried. The tears streamed down his face in a great river of cleansing. He felt a cool hand rest upon the crown of his head. "Let this go, Legolas," said Arwen as she knelt beside her friend and her beloved. He opened his eyes enough to see her, finding repose in his weeping. She smiled tenderly, her own pale cheeks glistening with tears. Her gaze was peaceful, open and offering. "No amount of distance or danger can sever the ties between us. Are these not the same words you spoke to me after my father's council? Believe in them now. I beg you!"

He dropped his gaze in shame, his sobs dying slowly. He pulled himself away from Aragorn's kneeling form with great strain, willing his weary body into motion. He pressed his back to the wall and looked down. The pattern of stone in the floor blurred as tears filled his eyes. "I am nothing now," he moaned. "Turn away your gaze! I wish you not the pain of seeing me reduced to such!"

"Nay," said Aragorn in a whisper, grasping Legolas' hand between in his own. The grip was warm and calloused. The ranger looked to him, his eyes bright with hope. "You are  _you_ , and that alone is great evidence of the strength you still possess. It means you did not lose yourself to Saruman's shadow. Know this and take back what he stole. You may have lost the light of your kind, but you did not sacrifice your heart to him. He did not make you a monster. He did not turn you less than what you are, what you were, what you always  _have been_." Aragorn grasped his shoulder. Legolas found he could not look from his friend's eyes. "You are Legolas, son of Thranduil, grandson of the great and powerful Oropher that laid the foundations of a mighty and worthy people. You are Legolas, one of the Nine Walkers, an Elf of amazing speed and prowess in battle, a creature of beautiful heart and song, of ageless wisdom. You are my dearest friend." The ranger shook his head, tears glowing in his eyes. "These things are the truth, and for all his power he could not change them! Do you see his lies? You are brother to my heart, and it pained me so terribly to think of the torture you endured on my behalf. I wished that I were in your place so many times, but fate sought a different road for me. Please do not think I abandoned you. It drives a knife into my heart, and I cannot bear the pain. I see your suffering, and it tortures me. Please, Legolas. I love you too much to bear your hatred. Please. Please!"

Though he thought it impossible, some part of him began to heal. He closed his eyes and let Aragorn's pulsing affection soothe his aching body and heart. Arwen's cool, gentle hand wiped away his tears. "You have much to mourn, and much over which to be angry. Yet do not dismay. We are still your friends, and we will continue to love you no matter where fate takes you. As long as there is heart, there is hope."

Legolas took her hand from the side of his face and squeezed it. How very much she sounded like Aratadarion with those words!

"Mister Legolas?"

He peered over Aragorn's shoulder, and the man turned at the sound of the meek call. Behind them stood Frodo and Sam, the latter of which leaning quite heavily against the foot of the large bed in the chamber. Both were pale, obviously surprised, disturbed, and confused by the exchange Legolas and Aragorn had carried on in Elvish. Legolas found his heart quaking in relief at seeing the Hobbits. In the heat of his anger, he had not noticed their presence.

Sam swallowed, tears rolling down his cheeks. "Mister Legolas, sir," he said again, his face scrunched in sorrow and hurt. It was clear from the innocent glaze in his eyes that he did not understand the situation completely, knowing only that a great torture had been done to Legolas and that it was dire enough to cause such strife between close friends. The Hobbit stood in the silence, his mouth hanging open as if he wanted to say something but was unable to find the appropriate words. Then he stumbled forth and buried himself in Legolas' arms.

Sam was sobbing uncontrollably. "Please don't hate me, Mister Legolas!" he cried, his voice muffled by Legolas' tunic. His head was nuzzled into the archer's shoulder. Legolas awkwardly embraced him, weakened from the strain of his emotions and confused over Sam's words. "I didn't want to leave you there! Had I known, sir… Please don't hate me! This happened to you because of me, I know it! You must despise the very sight of me…"

Legolas shook his head, a strange sort of calm coming over him. "I do not hate you, Sam," he assured the other softly, rubbing the Hobbit's gasping back. "I would never hate you. Do not be absurd."

The stout creature pulled himself away from Legolas' chest, sniffling. "Then you musn't give up, you see. You promised me that you would never give up, and for the longest time it was enough for me to just believe in that. I knew you were strong, so I forced myself not to doubt. Don't give up now!"

Legolas closed his eyes and remembered. It seemed an eternity past since he spoke those words to Sam. At the time, he had simply said them to force upon Sam the resolution to leave him behind. He had had no idea the Hobbit would carry his vow so dear to his heart. He released a slow breath. Perhaps he had done something to help Sam. Perhaps he had not simply sent the Halfling to painful toil in Mordor. It heartened him to know that it was his own endurance that had given Sam strength enough to face the dark of Sauron and defeat it. Perhaps it had not all been in vain, this great sacrifice he had made. Perhaps…

He dared to hope.

Frodo stepped closer, his wide blue eyes full of gleaming tears. Then he knelt on Legolas' other side. The small creature laid a shaking hand against Legolas' cheek, as if he was searching for substance to convince himself that indeed the archer lived. Then Frodo smiled. "I'm so glad to see you alive!" he announced. He too embraced Legolas, resting his chin on the other's shoulder, his eyes squeezed shut against the power of his relief. "That's all that matters to me… I'm so very happy!" He laughed. It was a wonderful sound.

Sam sniffled again and grinned. "It was worth it, wasn't it, Mister Legolas? We won, and now there will be peace. Doesn't that make it worth it?"

His mind was not sure of what to say to the question, but his heart was quick to answer. "Yes, Sam," he whispered, finding his voice weak and lost in emotion. His spirit swelled then, and he felt warm. Sam still regarded him as an Elf, the same awe and respect that the Hobbit had always before displayed still evident in his gaze. All had not been lost. "Yes, it was."

Sam laughed too. It eased Legolas to hear joy again in the other's voice. "Praise be, Legolas, sir! I know you can overcome this. I know you will find a way. We'll help you! You're so much stronger than this. We couldn't have come this far only to give up in the end!"

Tears filled Legolas' eyes once more. He sighed softly to compose himself. Sam's faith in him was a powerful balm to his brutalized soul. He felt the tiniest bit of hope find its way into his heart, and he was eager to grab it and hold the precious gift tightly. He would not again lose it to the shadow tormenting him! It would be a difficult ordeal to overcome his pain, but he knew that he could if he tried hard enough. He could accept this life, this fate, and at least find peace.

Legolas held tight to the two Hobbits, listening to them laugh and chatter. Aragorn watched, tentatively smiling, and then ruffled Sam's hair affectionately. "Good, old Sam!" said the ranger. "You are quite a bit wiser than you let on, my friend." Sam flushed with pride at the compliment. "Now let us get Legolas back to bed; he appears a bit fatigued."

The archer shook his head, seeing Aragorn's old protectiveness surface again. It reminded him of many times in the past when he had been wounded or weary. His friend always placed his welfare above the ranger's own, and though it often irritated Legolas, at the moment it was he inspirited by it. But he gave no argument, for the words were all too true, and he was dizzy and tired. Sam and Frodo reluctantly released him and backed away. Aragorn helped him stand slowly for his body heavy and pained. He could not keep the wince from his face. Aragorn steadied him as he wavered, the ranger's eyes concerned and saddened at the sight. But Legolas composed himself, submitting to the fact that he needed their aid despite his pride. He was led to the bed.

At the door stood Gandalf and Lord Elrond, the latter of which stepped closer to him. "This was a little too much too fast, young son of Thranduil. You must be mindful of your wounds," reprimanded the Half-Elf. He settled his hand on Legolas' brow to search for signs of fever, and the archer was too weary to put up much of a fight. "Obviously your assurances this morn that you were well enough to be up and about were a bit… premature on your part. You must not forget that you are not as resilient as you once were." The comment was not meant to hurt but merely offer gentle advice.

Legolas did not answer, his sudden exhaustion leaving his mind lethargic. He was settled into the bed, and for once he simply allowed his friends to care for him. Blankets were placed over him. He was offered a glass of water, which he quickly drank. It tasted sweet, for he knew Arwen had laced it with medicine to help him sleep. It was the same concoction she had forced him to take every day in hopes that he might lapse into a healing slumber deep enough to stop the nightmares from reaching him. Then she kissed his cheek. His eyelids slipped shut.

There was a rustle of activity around him. A flood of distant voices filled his ears, and he heard the words but was comfortable enough not to make sense of them.

"Come now, Master Gamgee, and let me have a look at your leg. It will do you no good to continue to walk on it."

"Will he be alright, Lord Elrond?"

"I believe he will be now."

A deep laugh. It was Gandalf. "Do not worry, Frodo. Legolas is endowed with blood from a line of wood-Elves both ancient and strong. He will not fall. He need only learn to love himself again, and his path will become clear to him."

There was silence for a moment, and Legolas slipped into a quiet oblivion. There was no pain or fear, only a formless peace. A hand grasped his and a familiar presence leaned over him. "I have missed you so much, my friend," came a hushed voice. Another pair of lips pressed to his forehead. "I swear to you, never again will I leave you in the darkness!"

For the first time in a long while, he fell asleep unafraid.

* * *

 _This truly is a beautiful place,_  thought Frodo, and not for the first time did he feel his heart swell with joy at beholding the city around him. He stood on Lord Elrond's ornate veranda, leaning against the cool and smooth stone of the railing and watching the Elven city glow all around him. The sun was high and bright with the afternoon, casting rays of gold down unto the ancient buildings. The air smelled sweet and clean, and breathing it somehow rejuvenated him. He had thought that the stench of Mordor would forever be ingrained into him, its poisonous fumes and fetid aromas staining his perceptions forever. Yet the gentle caress of the cool breeze in Rivendell washed away the dirt and grime, and he was content to simply breathe and watch the leaves drift lazily to the waters sweeping by so far below in the ravine. The heart of the Elves was here, he decided, and it was their tender care and radiance that brought life to all who entered their city.

It was quiet now, the birds and the rush of the water down the falls singing a soft melody of nature. Lord Elrond was still tending to Sam's injuries, and though Frodo had loathed leaving his friend behind, Sam had insisted he be free of his worry. So the Hobbit had placed his dearest friend in the competent hands of the master healer and had found his way alone to the palatial terrace of the manor. Aragorn had stolen a few quiet moments with the Lady Arwen, and though this solitude was something to which Frodo had grown unaccustomed, he did not seek out his ranger friend. Aragorn had suffered enough this day. It would have been utterly rude and thoughtless of Frodo to deprive him of the solace he sorely needed.

His mind was numb with all that had happened, and much of it he still found distressing enough to make pondering the matter completely unappealing. Thus he decided that he would simply feel and not think for however long time let him. The aura of life, power, and love that this place exuded was warm to his heart, and he let it sweep over him and rid him of his anxieties momentarily. Everything had happened so quickly that it had left him bedazzled and helpless to make right of it. He forgot his frustration, though, and closed his eyes. It would do no good to linger on things beyond his control or understanding. He could only trust that Legolas and Aragorn would find their way.

Much to his surprise, Gandalf's encouraging words during their journey to Rivendell had led to some sort of relief. Though his shame was still present within him, its deafening cries had disappeared and he had begun to let go of his hate. He would not let it poison him. He would not let it defeat him.  _There is a reason for everything,_ he thought, his eyes distant and unfocussed.  _I have faith in that._ This was a moment for serenity, for reconciliation. He would not taint it with irrational guilt.  _What's done is done. For better or worse, it happened as it has._ A small smile came to his lips. How far he had come! Pride surged up within him, the strongest sense of it he had had in a long time. Thinking of what he had accomplished filled him a light brighter and hotter than the sun, and he could scarcely breathe as he recounted the path he had walked. Leaving the Shire. Bravely facing the darkest of the Dark Lord's demons. Forming a Fellowship, a band of brothers bound in fate and duty. Escaping the dark of Moria. Losing Gandalf and Legolas. Finding the strength to follow Sam into the black and forbidding lands. Destroying the Ring. He had truly done all that! It seemed an amazing feat for a creature so small and insignificant. He had never dreamed he would ever do such a thing. Life had seemed to be confined to the security of Hobbiton. He recalled Bilbo's words and smiled wider.  _"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to."_

"I had heard you arrived a few hours ago, but I knew you'd be taken with the Prince of Mirkwood's predicament so I didn't bother to interrupt you. Poor thing!"

Frodo turned around quickly, startled from his reverie. His eyes widened. "Bilbo!" he gasped.

The old Hobbit laughed and embraced his nephew warmly. "Welcome back, my boy," Bilbo gasped, squeezing Frodo tightly despite his frail appearance. For his own part, Frodo swallowed the lump in his throat and basked in the comfort of his uncle's presence. They remained as such for quite a few minutes, the world disappearing around them in their renewed bond of family.

Bilbo pulled away and smiled. "It is so good to see you well! When Lord Elrond and his daughter departed for the other Elvish kingdom, I feared for the worst. It seems that my worries were misplaced." He laid a weathered hand against Frodo's cheek, his skin feeling leathery and worn. "I should have had more faith in you, Frodo! You are a Baggins, after all, and we Bagginses are very reliable creatures!"

Frodo laughed. "If you say so, Bilbo. You make it sound as though I had no help! It was hardly the case, you must know."

The two walked to a bench. Leaves fell to the smooth stone from the nearby trees, drifting to the ground in a gentle rain. Bilbo had aged greatly, Frodo sadly realized, in the months since he had last seen his uncle. The old Hobbit was quite decrepit, shuffling his feet as he walked, and a bit hunched. His hair had thinned considerably, leaving a puff of curly, white locks upon his head. His face was greatly lined with age, but his eyes were deep with pride and contentment. "Ah, well, it's just as well to say so, I suppose. But I doubted any of the others tossed that blasted Ring into the fiery furnace of Mount Doom!"

Frodo smiled uncomfortably, feeling wretched as he received his uncle's seemingly undue praise. Bilbo was astute though, and noticed the pain flash across Frodo's gaze. The elderly Hobbit patted his nephew's hand where it rested upon his knee. "Glad your adventure is over, Frodo?"

Frodo smiled in spite of himself, tracing to the ornate designed carved into the polished marble with his eyes absently. He sighed tiredly but without grief. "I guess I am, Uncle Bilbo. It… it wasn't…"

"Anything you expected," Bilbo finished for him. Frodo looked up, surprised at his uncle's words and intuition. Bilbo afforded him a knowing gaze and nodded, his eyes regretful and dark with experience. Frodo was surprised at this reaction. Bilbo had often spoken of his own journey through Mirkwood on Gandalf's behest so many years prior with an ounce of excitement in his voice. With much begrudging he had regaled the tale to his nephew and his friends, and though he complained greatly about the terrible conditions and tireless traveling, there had always been the remnants of something that Frodo, until now, had never understood. "Very few things in life are, my boy. Very few things. You can't operate very efficiently on expectations because fate has a strange way of turning everything you thought was certain against you, and changing the impossible to reality. Such is the way of things, I think." The old creature sighed, sagging slightly. "You will regret that it started. You will regret that it ended. You will regret things you did and things you didn't. But we grow richer in experience, Frodo. And that is a worthy reward for the troubles we undergo."

Bilbo lifted his eyes and narrowed them, meeting his nephew's affectionate gaze. "Ah, well then! Enough of this talk. I assume you have a grand story to tell, and I would very much like to hear it." The old Hobbit smiled ruefully. "Perhaps I shall add your tale to mine. Would you care for that, Frodo? 'There and Back Again: A Tale of Two Bagginses' Trials in the World Beyond Their Home'! What a grand title!" he said wistfully.

"Indeed," came a rumbling voice to their left. Gandalf stood at the arched stone entrance to the terrace, leaning upon his great staff. He smiled widely and knowingly. "I suffice it to say that it is so grand, it is almost as long as the book itself," he jested.

Bilbo huffed. "Oh, come off it, Gandalf. No need to be jealous of our legacy!" he retorted, though the harsh words were hardly scathing at all as they were laced with joke and good nature.

The great wizard ambled closer. "It is good to see you again, Bilbo," he said, embracing the Hobbit. Bilbo almost disappeared in the Istar's gallant white robes.

"You as well, Gandalf. Your change in attire suits you well!" declared Bilbo as he detangled himself from Gandalf's large arms. "And I must thank you for helping Frodo. You have obviously been as good a friend to him as you have always been to me."

Gandalf nodded as the old Hobbit gingerly resettled himself on the bench. "It was no trouble at all. He did quite well for himself."

"Yes, he did! I'm very proud, I must tell you!"

"As am I."

Frodo blushed once more with their compliments. Though he felt it was undeserved, he reveled in the praise. Then he sobered. "How is Legolas, Gandalf?" The wizard had obviously just come from the archer's room where Frodo had parted company with him not too long ago.

The wizard pressed his hand to his brow. "He sleeps still, Frodo." He sighed softly, but his face was not distressed. Frodo's own expression turned downcast. "He will come to terms with his loss. That will be the first step of his recovery."

"It is a sad and terrible thing, Gandalf," declared Bilbo. He obviously found the fact of it quite repugnant. "I daresay I remember that young Elf from his father's court. He was quite the bright one, with eyes wide and inquisitive. It's a true shame such a fate befell him."

They were silent a moment, as if in mournful respect. Even the breeze did not have the gall to shatter the quiet with its rustling whisper. Then it became too unbearable, and Bilbo broke its hold upon them. "Well, tell me of your travels! I've been so busy with my book, you see, that I haven't sought much company."

Gandalf glanced at Frodo. Mirth glowed in the wizard's gaze, and then he launched into a tale, deciding that the story of the Fellowship's journey through the Mines of Moria was innocent and exciting enough. As the wizard spoke, Frodo's mind drifted. It was a story of the past, but he thought of the future. He knew there would be time to rest, to recuperate, to repent and rejoice. At last he had found an absolution.

* * *

Evening came to Rivendell, and Legolas still slept. Lord Elrond had seen to him a few times that afternoon, but had nothing to report other than he appeared to be resting comfortably. It was enough to calm Aragorn's riled nerves to know that his friend had finally seemed to find some semblance of peace. In a quiet, private moment, Arwen had revealed to him the nature of Legolas' degeneration since arriving in Rivendell. He had tried to remain impassive and steadfast during her horrid tale of their friend's nightmares and delirium, but he had been unable to remain so strong. She had told him of their friend's wish to die, begging his forgiveness for denying him the truth. The thought left Aragorn confused and upset. When the tears of her release dampened the breast of his tunic, he had closed his eyes and whispered words of encouragement and thanks to her for caring for Legolas, forgetting whatever anger he had felt at her omission. He knew this whole venture had been a trying ordeal for her, and he admired her strength and beauty more then than he had ever before.

Sometime earlier there had been quite the pleasant surprise. A ruckus from the stables had called the attention of Elladan and Elrohir from their dinner, and Aragorn had thought little of their sudden disappearances at the time, his mind distracted and his heart heavy with Legolas' predicament. Not long after there came a familiar, indignant, and gruff voice down the great hall of Elrond's House. Aragorn had remained still, sitting at the dining table beside Frodo and Sam, listening intently and wondering whether or not to trust his tired senses. Sure enough, though, Gimli came stomping down the corridor in an animated argument with the Elf Lord Glorfindel, who he had encountered in the woods beyond Rivendell. Merry and Pippin, dirtied but otherwise elated, had followed, guided by Elladan and Elrohir. The ranger smiled now in the memory, seeing Gimli's red face and hearing his booming voice. To the Dwarf's his piercing glare, the powerful Glorfindel had merely raised an eyebrow in irritation. It was quite an amusing sight.  _"Aragorn, this haughty Elf says Legolas still lives but will not take me to him! Is this true? You fool Elf!"_

Though Aragorn had been gladdened to see the Dwarf and to discover that the majestic Golden Wood had been saved, explaining to Gimli the nature of Legolas' condition had been no easy task. The Dwarf had simply not understood, though whether his confusion was borne from true ignorance or pained denial Aragorn could not be certain. Repeatedly he had explained to the stout warrior that there was nothing anyone could do, that even the powers of Lord Elrond and Gandalf were not strong enough to undo the damage done to Legolas by the curse, but Gimli had chosen not to listen. It was his love for Legolas that would not allow him to simply accept this truth. Aragorn sympathized; to suddenly know Legolas was alive and then see the substance of that life… it was terrible indeed. But the Dwarf had finally quieted his harsh arguments, submitting to the cold reality of the situation. He had wanted to see Legolas, but Lord Elrond had intervened, explaining that the fallen archer needed rest above all. Gimli, Merry, and Pippin had been none too happy with this, but they were too dismayed and tired to argue.

Now they all sat outside, resting under the light of the stars. Perhaps it was a coincidence, Aragorn mused, that they had chosen this night to rest together on the very same terrace where Elrond had held his council months past. On this night, the strange quirk of fate seemed to be something more, something profound and touching, and each of them seemed to sense it. Frodo and Sam sat together, Sam's broken leg covered in a blanket and braced properly. Frodo's eyes were distant but unburdened. Merry and Pippin rested on either side of the two. They had been ecstatic during their reunion with their friends, thrilled with the amazing feat the Sam and Frodo had accomplished. A little while back, while the sun had still been setting, they had excitedly told their tale, missing no small detail of the battle for Lothlórien. Aragorn had listened with meager attention, his mind drifting in his exhaustion to the pains of the day and worries of the future. He sat beside Gimli, puffing on his pipe. Gandalf's eyes were glazed in thought that was mysterious and forbidden to all. In the silence that had descended, the mist obscuring their pain had dissipated, and the absence of the Boromir and Legolas became distracting and terrible.

The night was crisp and cold, though the smoke from their pipes was pungent and warming enough. The chill of autumn was not long off, and Aragorn almost welcomed it. Some things had remained constant despite the great change that had come to Middle Earth these last months, and fall would follow summer as surely as day did night. He felt weary then, knowing he had come so very far since the last instance he had sat in this beautiful spot. Much had been lost. Much had been won. Powerful in the air that night was a strange shade of sorts, a sensation that was not entirely explainable or tangible but meaningful to each. It was the spirit of their brotherhood. It was a hungry ghost, searching for some sort of pardon. It was the betrayal and fear and sorrow that still clung to them like shadows. Quite some time had passed since they had last spoken, the emptiness at once companionable and awkward. Each shared the same thought, the same pain. Each searched for a final forgiveness.

The stars twinkled above. They shed soft light, the sky bright with so many spirits and souls. Aragorn watched them intently, imploring them for answers to his questions. He felt so much was yet undecided, and the wait to know the course of things was too frustrating for his fatigued heart. The tension disturbed him. He yearned to simply rest and enjoy this time he had now in the company of his family. Duty would soon call him back to Gondor, and he supposed it was folly to yearn for things that could never be his again. Memories of foolery and games with Elladan and Elrohir, of long talks with Elrond, of moonlit walks with Arwen, flitted across his mind. These were things that he could not have back, and though it saddened him, it did not vex him. The change was inevitable, and there was no use in angering oneself over things one had no power to alter.

Yet he wondered. He wondered at the path created by Boromir's duplicity. He was amazed at the way things had righted himself; it was more than obvious that somehow the traitorous man had regained Legolas' confidence and affection. He marveled at the strength of his Hobbit companions. Who would have thought that beings so small could have so drastically shaped the course of their world? He pondered the change in Gimli and the love for the Firstborn that had enigmatically found its way into his gruff, Dwarven heart. He thought of Gandalf, of his dear friend's seeming metamorphosis into the most powerful and wise of all Istari without shedding any of his compassion. Were these things meant to be? Was there another path, a road not taken where Boromir had remained true to himself? Where Legolas had not fallen at Amon Hen? Could fate have somehow restored all to what it should be?

Time passed slowly. Finally there was an answer.

"I shall never understand the need of mortals to wreath themselves in such putrid smoke," quipped a soft voice from the entrance to the terrace.

Aragorn's heart leapt in joy as he stood quickly and turned.

Legolas stood beneath the stone archway. In the pale light, his eyes glowed meagerly, but they were without the haunting and terrible nightmare of before. He leaned heavily into Elladan, the Elf's arm wrapped about the archer's waist. Arwen stood on his other side, her face bright and happy, as she held his arm. A warm blanket was draped over the injured Legolas' shoulders.

"Legolas! Legolas!" cried Pippin. "See, I told you, Master Gimli! I told you Boromir would find him!" Merry laughed jovially as the two leapt to their feet and thundered over to their friend. Legolas winced but made no move to dissuade them from their grasps as the two Hobbits grabbed him. They began to chatter loudly, professing how glad they were that he was alive and well, how overjoyed they were to see him again. Legolas laid his hand upon each of their heads in turn, not well enough to lower himself to embrace them.

Gimli smiled broadly. "Master Elf," he said, standing before Legolas.

Legolas nodded, his eyes glistening. "Master Dwarf," he responded in an equal tone.

It seemed a bit awkward, but not because of prejudice or anger. Gimli was not a creature that easily showed his emotions. The Dwarf grasped the archer's arm, and Legolas returned the gesture. "Ai, how much this relieves me! I fear I shall never forgive myself for leaving you…"

"Nay, Gimli, do not despair," said Legolas, shaking his head at the Dwarf's words. "Let us not think of it, for it is far behind us now. It is not your fault."

Aragorn shook his head in a small gesture, amazed at the change in his friend. The wrathful hate, the shame and despair, seemed to have fled him, leaving the old Legolas fighting to regain his place. It truly had been a healing sleep!

Gimli lowered his gaze in shame, his eyes dark with hurt and guilt. He too suffered the same pain that assailed Aragorn. The ranger did not doubt that the Dwarf knew he as well would never be rid of it. Amending a mistake did not erase its happening. "I am so sorry, my friend," whispered the Dwarf on a rushed breath. "I am so sorry that this terrible thing happened to you!"

Legolas looked away, and for a moment Aragorn saw the pain return to his eyes. His battle against this curse would not easily be won. The archer released a slow, shaking sigh to compose himself, and then returned his gaze to his companions. "Think not of it. I do not wish to dwell now, for the pain is still too near. Do not assume guilt. It hurts me more to see your grief."

Gimli nodded, and though the statement was full of forgiveness, it was clear that it did not completely absolve. Still, it was satisfying enough for the moment.

Elladan helped Legolas sit then, carefully lowering the weakened archer to one of the chairs upon the terrace. Arwen settled the blanket across her charge securely, assuring herself that he was well guarded against the chill of the night. It would do him no good to catch ill once more. Then she handed him a cup of steaming broth that smelled pungent and medicinal. Legolas scowled at her momentarily, but she would not be dissuaded. Her hand rested comfortingly on his shoulder a moment as she watched him sip the medicine. Then she turned, her gown swishing about her lithe form as she did. Briefly she held Aragorn's gaze, and he did not miss the relief shining in her vibrant blue eyes. They held a radiance of peace and life again, and Aragorn felt his heart rush with powerful love for her.

Then the two Elves were gone, leaving the Fellowship. For the longest time, no one had the courage to speak. The sense of what was lost felt smothering, clenching each heart in a vise too strong to break. Finally, Gandalf said, "Welcome back to us, Prince of Mirkwood. You were sorely missed."

Legolas nodded, and Aragorn watched the emotions dance in his eyes. The breeze swept by, pulling a few locks of blond hair from the binding at the base of Legolas' neck. The archer shuddered.

"Well!" said Pippin. He veritably beamed. "We've come back to where we started. Isn't that a strange thing?"

Gimli grunted, his eyes distant. "Not so strange, Master Peregrin. Fate works in many ways to right things once broken."

"Here, here," said Sam. He looked to Frodo, smiling reassuringly. "Look at all we did! It's quite the accomplishment!"

The silence was pushed aside. They chattered then, for there were many stories to tell, many things to share. Merry and Pippin were animated in their joy, speaking and laughing loudly as they went on in their antics, eliciting laughs from those present. As all good conversations do, this one wandered from topic to topic. According to Gandalf, it seemed Lord Elrond, at the behest of his children, was planning a grand celebration to mark this momentous victory for the free peoples of Middle Earth. This was enough to send the Hobbits into another flurry of inane palaver over what food might be present and what people they might yet meet.

Aragorn found himself watching Legolas mostly, staring at his friend when the archer's attention was diverted in hopes of gauging his vitality. Legolas was withdrawn, though it seemed more from overwhelming weariness and relief than pain. The curse still was upon him, that much was evident. Yet he was vastly improved from his earlier state, and Aragorn knew that was encouraging. Perhaps Gandalf had been right. Legolas might yet find a way to free himself.

Gimli had invited Legolas to join him in traveling someday. Often during their journey they had argued over the merits of their respective homelands. The Dwarf reasoned that the archer might enjoy seeing the glory of the great Dwarven caves of Gimli's people. Legolas seemed a bit hesitant initially, but then he regained himself and agreed. His ascension clearly greatly satisfied Gimli, though the stout warrior tried hard to mask it. Then he launched into some tale of Dwarven might, his rolling, deep voice filling the evening.

Among them, though, was still that spirit. It was quiet, peaceful, watching and protecting. It was a steadfast guardian, a silent sentinel. Aragorn glanced about. He thought he felt something strange and surreal. He could not place it, but inexplicably he imagined he heard Boromir's voice. For the first time since Amon Hen did he remember his comrade without disdain. He breathed deeply, concentrating on the fleeting sensation. He remembered Boromir's pride and strength, his devotion to his cause.  _"If this is the will of the Council, then Gondor shall see it done."_  He had not lied. He had not failed.

Aragorn let the world came back to him. The others were talking quite loudly, debating some trivial matter as they had so many times in the past over a campfire in Hollin or meager supper in Moria. Yet it was not this that directed Aragorn's attention.

A gentle breeze touched his cheek, and he looked to his dearest friend. For the briefest moment, he believed he saw Boromir standing behind Legolas, his hand resting firmly upon the archer's shoulder, his eyes wet with sadness and joy at once, his face strong and hopeful. It was as though he was offering this final act of repentence, assuring that now all would be right again. He had fulfilled his promised. Aragorn blinked, and he was gone.

Legolas was watching the starry sky. Clear tears slipped silently down his face. Then he did something Aragorn feared he might never do again.

He smiled.


	33. In the End

It was morning, and though the bright sun and blue sky hinted at a cool and gorgeous day, it seemed to Legolas that this day, more than any other, would he have to accept the truth of things.

He sat upon his bed. The velvet curtains were wide open and secured as such, letting all the light of the new day spill into the chamber and shove back the shadows. However, it seemed to him that its warmth never made it past the window. He was tired today, as he had been yesterday and the day before. He sagged and closed his eyes, wondering if he had the strength to do what was required of him.

Water dripped down his nose. He had just taken a bath, hoping the warmth would do much to ease his tense muscles and weary form. He had sat in it for much longer than he should have, and time was now fleeting. He was rather disgusted at his own lethargy. He should be taking the brush he had set beside him and using it to do something with the mess of his hair. He should be quickly dressing. He should be taking a meal, for though he did not like to admit it, this mortal body craved sustenance almost constantly, and irritatingly he was often forced to oblige it. He should be meeting Aragorn and Gimli in the stables. Yet there he sat, soaked, letting water seep into the expensive bedding without much regard, staring blearily out the window. He smiled ruefully. His father would be quite unappreciative of his sluggish nature this morning.

Legolas had begun to realize how very slow time passed when one was sick. It was a strange thing, really. For an Elf, time was never an enemy, and it traveled as it chose without much of his concern, whether quickly or leisurely. However, it had adopted a new meaning to him now. It was constantly on his mind. Suddenly hours seemed slow, time wearily trudging through each day in its endless march. At sunset, he would look back upon the empty day and curse it, wondering where the hours had gone and why they had forsaken him. He had become accustomed to the grotesque and disturbing feeling of mortality, of knowing that his body was dying all around him and that he was unfortunately helpless to prevent it. His grin returned to his face. How he had grown to respect Aragorn and the others. He had never before known mortality to be such a trying venture. Elves did not require sleep. Elves did not need to eat often. Elves did not make an enemy of the ageless and wise time. Mortality by nature did not afford its captives such luxury. He was only beginning to become acclimated.

 _Get moving now,_  his mind barked to his body.  _Today is far too important for you to tarry!_ It was true. Today he would return to Mirkwood. Today he would again see his family. His father. Legolas shuddered, though the air was warm and he was snugly wrapped in a robe. His heart was riddled with anxiety, and for all his strength he could not calm its frantic rush. No matter how he twisted the problem or struggled to rationalize, he could not escape the fact that he must face his father and tell him the truth. The grin slipped from his face. He wondered not for the first time that day how he could do this. Surely the sight of him turned mortal would be enough to strike hate and rage into Thranduil's heart! Could he possibly bear to add to his father's distress by revealing to him the monster Astaldogald had become? By speaking the truth about all that had happened? A few days prior, he had finally managed to persuade Aragorn to explain to him what had occurred in Gondor after he had been wounded. It had surprised him to learn of Aratadarion's deception. Aragorn still appeared greatly vexed by the entire situation, and Legolas sympathized with him, for the consequences of Aratadarion's lies would undoubtedly now prove dire. He doubted his father knew that Aragorn had killed Astaldogald. If he had, Legolas was certain Thranduil would have sent every soldier available to drag the newfound king of Gondor back to Mirkwood where he would be summarily punished, likely by death. He shook his head. Surely his father did not know!

The silence from Mirkwood disturbed him greatly. Not a single messenger had come to Rivendell seeking news of its prince's well being. This at once angered and saddened Legolas. Had they already rejected him? He did not want to think it, but the worry nagged at him relentlessly. He sighed and looked down to the floor where his bare feet rested.  _You are quite the hypocrite,_  he thought sadly. Why had he bothered to expect otherwise? Many hundreds of years had passed in Mirkwood since the last member of the royal family had passed into the Halls, and he expected Astaldogald's sudden death to be a consuming event for the entire kingdom. They would not spend thought or lament upon the youngest son of Thranduil, the child that had forsaken his family, the one that had brought upon them such shame and peril. Legolas shuddered. Nay, he should not anticipate their interest in him, and he chastised himself for hoping as much.

Still, it was hardly consoling to think this. He longed for some sort of signal from his family, even if it were to be unpleasant. It would be vastly preferable to this silence. He narrowed his eyes in thought. Today he would know for certain whether his family had rejected him. He would return home and tell his father the truth about Astaldogald, and reveal the truth about himself. And he would part with them forever.

There came a knock at his door. At first he remained in his daze, for the thought of company at that moment was not alluring, and he did not even raise his head. But his visitor was persistent. Another knock followed, this time accompanied by a muffled voice. "Legolas? Legolas, are you well?" It was Arwen. Even through the thick door he could detect her concern. "Legolas?" The door creaked open slightly. "May I come in?"

She did not give him time to answer, but stepped nimbly inside, closing the door behind her with a soft thud. He turned to her momentarily. In the sunlight she glowed, her skin seemingly very white and pale when compared to the deep lilac of her simple gown. Her abundant hair was swept up and pinned in an elegant style that left most of the locks cascading down her back. She was quite beautiful, and Legolas could not help but smile. Aragorn had been extremely lucky to catch her fancy.

Her blue eyes were wide with question and concern. Surely the sight of him was somewhat alarming. It was so unlike him to be sloppy and sluggish. Legolas knew he had no reason to be embarrassed before her, for she had seen worst of his nightmares, had treated him in his darkest, dirtiest hour. Yet his cheeks suddenly flushed red with shame, and he pulled the robe tighter to conceal himself as she stepped closer.

She came to sit beside him carefully, and the bed shifted with her added weight. "You will miss breakfast if you do not hurry," she said. The worry in her voice betrayed her scolding tone. "The cooks have been waiting nearly a half an hour."

He finally gained the courage to look up. "I am sorry," he said softly. "I am just… weary this morning."

They were silent. Legolas felt her trepidation and uncertainty in the long, empty moment. It was on her quiet breath, this nervousness, and he knew what she would ask before she gathered courage sufficient to voice her request. "Why not wait a bit longer? You do not have to do this, Legolas…"

"Nay, my Lady," he responded quietly. He closed his eyes against his headache. Days ago had he announced his intention to ride to Mirkwood. It had been met with some resistance. Aragorn had insisted that he come as well. The thought had not overly pleased Legolas, for he did not know the danger his dear friend might face in his home. Gimli as well had volunteered himself as the archer's guardian despite his dislike for Mirkwood and its inhabitants. Though it hurt Legolas' pride to know that his friends thought he needed protection, he was inwardly glad for their company. He knew the trip would be trying and difficult for him. Arwen had said nothing of the matter at first, but he could detect her reservation and doubt in her noticeable silence. She knew it was not her place to question Legolas' judgment before his friends. She would not deal such a damaging blow to his ego. Now, though, in private she obviously intended to voice what she had previously left unsaid. "I must. They will not come for me, and so I must go to them. I know my father. If I am to do this, I must do it on his terms."

"That is not fair, Legolas," she declared, shaking her head in disgust and disdain. Though she said this with only his best interests in mind, he found the comment scathing. "You were hurt as well."

He shook his head. "I… It is not so simple, Arwen. You know as well as I. You have been to my father's realm. The Elves of Mirkwood base much on pride and tradition. There they do not dissociate between being an Elf and being a prince. I cannot go back to them as I am now. I will not put such a pain upon my father." Legolas released a slow breath. "I will not make him choose."

Her hand fell upon his shoulder. Her smile was sad. "Then you are stronger than I, my Lord, for I would not have the resolution to deny myself my own birthright for the sake of my people." The statement was meant to hearten and encourage him, but the words were somehow painful. Legolas only looked away, hoping to hide his hurt from her. She had already done far too much for him; she did not need to know how much her simple thought pained him.

They were silent again then. It was an awkward emptiness, a void deep with question and regret. His reasons for returning to Mirkwood had done more to upset them both than add any sort of completion to the moment. He sank deeper into his weariness.  _Yes, I will return to renounce my place as prince. As my father's son._ The thought brought tears to his eyes, tears that he quickly blinked away. He was surprised he had any strength left to combat this sadness. He knew deep within himself that he had to do this, even though his heart cried out in grief and anger. He would never be able to accept the truth of what he had become unless he forgot what he once was.

He felt a tugging at his hair. Arwen had taken the idle brush from beside him and was now pulling it through his sodden locks. He was startled a moment, and then castigated himself harshly. His weakened senses still at times left him rather vulnerable to surprise. She stopped, obviously sensing his alarm. "Shall I leave you?" she asked quietly.

Legolas could only slowly shake his head. After another hesitant moment, she resumed brushing and straightening his hair, gently removing the tangles from the bath. Legolas closed his eyes, content in her presence to rest, the lethargy returning quite easily to grasp his body and mind. As she brushed, she spoke. "Where will you go now?"

It was not something he had really considered. All he had known in his life was Mirkwood. He was not skilled in much aside from war and diplomacy. He had been a prince, but not the crown prince, and thus not learned in the ways of ruling a kingdom. What was he to do now? He saw the rest of his life stretch before him, empty and lined with uncertainty. Yet, there was something about that uncertainty that was perhaps a bit exciting. For the first time, he was completely free, unfettered by responsibility to a kingdom. He was not sure if he found this liberation pleasurable or disturbing. "I do not know," he admitted in a meek tone.

Arwen collected his long hair in her hand, running her fingers gently between the now smooth strands. She hesitated once more, but ultimately found it within herself to speak. "Perhaps you would like to join Aragorn in Minas Tirith." He lifted his head and turned to look at her. She smiled, her eyes firm in her offering.

A little bit of that uncertainty and unease faded as she held his gaze. A small grin pulled at his lips, and he turned away again. Her trite invitation had alleviated a bit of his confusion and trepidation. "Perhaps," he responded. It was a noncommittal answer, but his tone held much relief.

The matter was then dropped. There was much time, after all, to decide such things. Arwen set down the brush. "Would you like me to braid your hair, Legolas?"

Icy water rolled over him and he stiffened. Flashes of memories stampeded through his head. The Uruk-hai ripping at his hair, pulling free the braids of his heritage. Saruman's smug smile at the sight.  _"Neither Elf nor prince, dear Legolas!"_  "No," he whispered harshly, narrowing his eyes in hate. The memory was slow to fade, vivid and terrifying, and it left him trembling in anger. "I would rather you cut it. I cannot go back." His eyes filled with furious and stinging tears. How could there be any left to cry? "If I am to live as a mortal, I might as well look as one."

There was no answer at first. So dark and deep were his thoughts that he did not listen overly intently, else he might have heard Arwen's small laugh. She had retrieved the cord from the bed stand. Gently she fastened it about Legolas' hair, securing it at the nape of his neck and away from his face. "I could never bring myself to do that, dear Legolas. If you want your hair shorn, you shall have to do it yourself!" She smiled and leaned over his shoulder to look into his eyes. Hers were alive in friendly mirth. "Now come and have your breakfast. If you insist upon taking this journey, I will see you and Estel properly fed before you depart."

It was not the reaction he had expected. Exasperated, he watched her stand. She seemed to float to the door, elegant and graceful in every simple movement. "Arwen!" he called.

She stopped at the portal, her hand grasping the knob, and turned to face him. Upon her face was a question, and she regarded him with expectant and inquisitive eyes.

He sighed slowly. "How…" He nearly faltered, unsure of how to ask such a thing of her. Surely it was a private matter, and he did not want to press upon her a fact that might be distressing. Yet he could not still the question. It was too important. "How do you contend with the emptiness?"

She regarded him blankly for a moment, as if she had not understood his question. His eyes were intent upon her, imploring her for some sort peace. Then pain flashed across her face, sympathy shining in her bright blue eyes. "For me it is not emptiness, but completion." He had not wanted such an answer, and he felt the depression well up within him. He was afraid he would never grow accustomed to this terrible silence within him. "I know it can be the same for you, Legolas. Give yourself time."

It was somehow enough. He did not know how or why, but he felt inexplicably better. Stronger. He breathed deeply. "Thank you," he murmured, "for everything."

She smiled affectionately. "Come. It is a beautiful day!"

The door opened and shut quickly, and she was gone. He was alone once more. In the time he had sat there, he had dried a great deal. The sunbeams streamed through the window, but they no longer pained his eyes. In stead, they warmed his skin, his mind, and his heart. He shrugged aside his lethargy. Although his doubt and anxiety remained, he believed now that if he took this journey but one step at a time, he would somehow find the strength to do what he thought necessary.

Slowly he stood.

It was time.

* * *

She only remained in the dining hall long enough to see Legolas arrive. All except Aragorn had waited for him to appear before beginning to eat despite the prince's obvious chagrin. The others had grown worried at Legolas' delay and were much relieved and delighted to see him this morning, although their own meals had become quite cold. A moment after he was seated, the conversation resumed and they all began eating in earnest. She observed long enough to be certain that Legolas was indeed eating; he had developed an ugly habit of picking idly at his food without ever consuming much of it. She shook her head at him, surprised that he thought he could fool her healer's eye. This morning, at least, he seemed hungry enough to eat in earnest. Satisfied with that, she turned and set out to find Aragorn.

Arwen entered the stables. Quickly her eyes scanned her surroundings, but she saw neither Aragorn nor his great horse, Hasufel. The stable hand approached her and bowed quite lowly. "My Lady," he said in greeting.

She smiled and curtsied. "Has my Lord been here this morning?"

"That he has, my Lady. He took two horses and led them outside a few minutes past."

She nodded her thanks and stepped outside into the sun. Beyond the stables was a wide courtyard made of smooth stone and blanketed by leaves. Ahead to the left was the winding road that led its travelers up the ravine and to the forests surrounding Rivendell. The well-traveled path rose and wound its way along the rock. The sound of the falls was muffled here. This courtyard was the first view many had of Rivendell, and it was quite enchanting.

She found the ranger standing by one of the yard's lavish fountains. He held the reins to a great white horse. The animal was terribly skittish, and Aragorn was having a difficult time keeping him controlled. She approached quickly and offered her love a gentle smile. Then she laid calming hands upon the massive white horse, willing into him a peace. She whispered soft words to him, stroking his face tenderly. It was enough to appease the riled beast, and he stilled his struggles, submitting to her tender ministrations.

Aragorn afforded her a grateful smile. He pulled Hasufel closer then, and the massive brown stallion begrudgingly followed, eyeing his white companion with a wary glare. "Do they come?" asked Aragorn.

"Momentarily. He is eating now, my Lord."

He nodded. In the daylight, he was bright despite his ranger's garb. His lightly bearded face was lax, though, and his deep eyes were distant with troubling thoughts. She regarded him intently, watching his pained expression, and she herself grew distressed. Her heart ached for all he had endured these last weeks. Though the scathing comments Legolas had made were borne in a fit of depression and delirium, she knew that they still had served to wound Aragorn deeply because they had fed upon guilt already present. Discovering that Legolas' fate was sealed beyond their help had made that guilt only stronger. Now she knew the truth of all that had happened since the Fellowship broke at Amon Hen. A few nights prior she had finally convinced Aragorn to lay bare the source of his anguish, and her lover had done so with much resignation. The tale was a heart-wrenching, gruesome one, littered with shame, duty, and betrayal. She understood his reservation in traveling to Mirkwood; he was worried at what wrath he might face for killing one son of the king and leaving another stricken. The matter was complicated, and though she comprehended enough of it now to empathize with him, to say she knew how to aid him would be a painful and misleading lie. Still, Aragorn was not about to let his dearest friend undertake this journey alone, no matter what danger it might hold for him. Though Legolas had vastly improved since their arrival in Rivendell, this voyage would prove difficult and strenuous for him. He of course denied his need of their support, but Arwen knew he would be glad for it all the same. Aragorn would always protect him. He had silently renewed his vow with greater fervor than ever before.

The pained looked upon his handsome face grew too distressing, and she stepped forward to take his hand. "Do not fret," she said softly. "King Thranduil is not so much the monster as to punish you for matters beyond your control."

The comment was not made in jest, but Aragorn smiled all the same, as if realizing his anxieties were silly. "I do not fear his penance, but rather his hatred. What happened is not so simple that he could just lay his blame upon me. I believe him to be a stronger creature than that, and though Legolas considers him ignorant of the ways of other races at times, I do not think he could attain such stature if cursed with a narrow mind." His grin became rueful. "It is strange. For most of my life have I been Legolas' closest friend and he mine. Yet I know so little of his father, aside from his rumored wrathful nature." His distant eyes became focused upon her. "I worry more for Legolas than I do for myself. This will be no easy task for him."

She thought back to her conversation with Legolas in his room. "He will overcome because he must. Have you ever known Legolas to falter?"

Aragorn smiled again. "Never," he conceded. "You are right, of course. As you always are, my love."

She blossomed with the compliment. His thumbs gently traced the rise of her knuckles, and she drew close to him, hoping to steal a silent moment before he would again leave her. His other hand came to rest at the small of her back, leaving her tingling in unusual mixture of comfort and anxious desire, as she rested her head against his shoulder. He smelled vaguely of musty woods and pipe smoke. His heart was beating against her cheek. "Ai, Arwen," he whispered, his voice tickling her ear. His other hand stroked her thick hair. "You have always been my strength. Even from afar you shone upon me, Evenstar, and brought light and hope to my heart at its darkest hours." He lifted her chin so that their gazes met, and in his gray eyes she saw the deepest devotion. Its power shook her heart, and she struggled simply to breathe, wondering idly how she could still be so surprised at his love and so taken with him. "Oft I wonder what I have done to deserve the gifts you have given me. Your love, your life… Why did you choose me?"

She smiled slowly, laying her hand against the necklace she had given him, pressing it gently to his chest. Earlier she had noticed he had kept it with him throughout his journey, and that had pleased her immensely. "It was never a matter of choice, Estel," answered Arwen. "My heart beats only for you. Should you leave me, it would cease its strain in my breast, and I would fade. You are the force behind my existence. Continuing without your love is more of a torture to me than death." She pressed her hand to his cheek. "When death comes for me, I will not be afraid. It is a small price to pay for a lifetime of your splendor."

He smiled then, reaffirmed in her love for him, and sealed her lips in a warm kiss. They lingered in the moment, both content simply to bask in the heat of their passion and devotion. Finally they parted and Aragorn embraced her tightly. "Upon my return," he said breathlessly into her hair, "will you join me in traveling to Minas Tirith?"

She had no time to answer, for there came a great collection of voices in the courtyard. Ever concerned with decorum, they parted, though Aragorn scarcely hid his frustration. Down the wide stone steps came their friends. Elladan responded to a question posed loudly by Merry as they entered the area. Elrohir said nothing as he escorted Pippin, but he appraised his sister with a knowing smile. Behind them walked Legolas and Gimli. Their silence was laden with trust and anxiety.

"Well, if this isn't a proper send-off!" declared Pippin, gazing about the assembled group. Arwen reluctantly released Aragorn's hand as the ranger pulled forth their horses.

Legolas shook his head. "This need not be such an event," he said solemnly. His eyes betrayed his discomfort at their concern over him. In some fashion, Arwen sympathized with him. As long as she had known him, he had always been a creature of great dignity, guarding well his weaknesses. It had surely been difficult and embarrassing for him to have so many people fretting over him.

Elladan grinned mischievously. "You flatter yourself, Legolas," responded the tall, brunette Elf. "We are merely glad to see you go! Have you forgotten that normally my brother and I celebrated at your departure and peace that came to Father's House with your removal?"

Arwen shook her head at her brother; he was always ready to tease. His jest sparked laughter in the party, and it was a welcome relief to the unspoken tensions in the air. Even Legolas smiled and dipped his gaze. Merry and Pippin watched the twins of Elrond expectantly, clearly waiting for them to regale some vastly entertaining and hilarious tale. Elladan chuckled at their confused looks. "Oh, surely you do not think that the prince of Mirkwood was always so dignified as he is now! He and his compatriot here-" He gestured at Aragorn, who was grinning quite foolishly despite himself. "-were quite the trouble-makers. Many a trick was played upon us, though they would never now admit to them. The little brats thought themselves so smart since Father never learned of any of their… exploits."

"And now  _you_  flatter  _yourself_ , Elladan," Aragorn announced. "None of our exploits, as you call them, would have ever succeeded had you not been so oblivious."

Elrohir laughed as his twin turned red in embarrassment. "Peace, you two," he said, ever the arbitrator of their squabbles. He turned to Aragorn, seriousness piercing his gaze. "You best be on your way, Estel. The morning has already worn."

And so they went about their preparations. Bags filled with supplies for their short journey were attached to the horses' saddles. The white stallion seemed less than pleased that Gimli had returned to him. It was quite the humorous sight, spurring more laughter from those present, as the stubborn beast snorted and shied away from the Dwarf. Gimli cursed him, claiming he was daft and foul. The massive steed had given no protest, though, as Legolas had gingerly mounted him. In fact, he seemed almost relieved as the archer neared, nuzzling Legolas affectionately. This had only served to infuriate Gimli more, causing greater guffawing among the spectators. The Dwarf angrily proclaimed that it was so like this wretched horse to be instantly affable towards Legolas when through their long journey the beast had never once been so to him. Though the laughter was at the stout and indignant warrior's expense, he seemed more relieved to see Legolas' smile than angry at the joking.

How far they had all come to stand joyously at this moment!

Finally Gimli was settled upon the white horse, seated behind Legolas. Aragorn mounted Hasufel easily, his movements swift and powerful. He reined the great brown steed in, and the horse jumped a bit, obviously anxious to be underway. She approached them both. First, she smiled at Legolas. He appeared a bit hesitant, but resolution glowed in his eyes, and it was enough to ease her. She knew she did not have to worry. Then she turned to Aragorn. Her love lifted her hand and placed a chaste kiss upon it.

"Until our return, my Lady," spoke Gimli in a rumble. He lowered his head respectfully to her. She nodded, casting upon him a grateful look. Elladan and Elrohir came to stand beside her, silently offering her their support as she bid her friends farewell. She was faring quite a bit better than she thought she might, really. There was nothing to fear. They knew their way.

"Wait!"

Legolas was the first to turn at the shouted demand. Down the steps bounded Frodo. Behind him, still a bit hobbled by his leg, limped Sam. The Hobbits breathed heavily, their faces somewhat flushed. The group grew quiet, surprised by their sudden appearance. Merry came to help Sam silently, for the stout Gamgee was impeded by his crutch.

Frodo approached Legolas and Gimli, looking up at them from the ground. "I meant to return this before, but it slipped my mind," he admitted somewhat sheepishly. He reached up and offered Legolas a long, glowing knife. Arwen watched the exchange, confusion etched into her eyes. Legolas regarded the weapon a moment in obvious stupefaction. As the sun caught the beautiful blade, Arwen received a glimpse of an Elvish inscription. She recognized the skillful metal work. It was a weapon from Mirkwood.

Frodo's face was open as he looked to Legolas, waiting for the archer to accept what he offered. "I found it, you see, when I returned to Amon Hen. I thought you might like it back." The words were trivial compared to the emotion in the Hobbit's voice. Something lined the words, and though Arwen considered herself rather perceptive, she could not unravel the message. There was a note of gratitude, she thought, but clearly more as well. Sadness? Repentance?

Legolas understood, though, and a slow smile spread across his fair features. "You keep it, Frodo Baggins. It eases me to know it served you well."

For a moment, it was still. Then Frodo retracted his offering hand, looking at the knife in awe. He returned his gaze to Legolas and nodded, breaking from his stupor. The Halfling smiled then. After all they had been through, it seemed a healing moment for them both. "Have a safe journey, Prince Legolas."

The sound of the title caused pain to flash across Legolas' eyes. Yet he did not falter, but nodded and thanked Frodo for his concern. The Hobbit then returned to his companions, grinning, and Merry draped a friendly arm over his shoulder.

With that, they were off. Pippin shouted after them, "Might you bring me a knife back too?" Merry elbowed him in the ribs for his foolery, and he immediately reacted with indignant befuddlement. "What? They are quite pretty, and I would like one! Think of the look on our friends' faces if I came back with such a thing!" Frodo rolled his eyes and shook his head, amused by his friend's silliness.

She and the others watched until they were far away upon the road from Rivendell. As they grew distant and indiscernible, Arwen felt a bit of her heart go with the two she loved. This was the last step of Legolas' journey. She did not doubt he would take it.

The rest of the day wore on quite slowly. She found much of it elapsed without her notice, as her mind was muddled with many thoughts. Rivendell had come free of its depression with Legolas' departure. Though unspoken, the relief was clear over his renewed spirit. She spent the day busy with the celebration plans. It would be a rather large feast, with many in attendance and music and food enough to last well into the night. Her interest was elsewhere, though. She thought of Aragorn and what he had asked of her. She had not been overly surprised at his request to follow him to Minas Tirith, but it still seemed sudden, and she did not know how to approach her father about the matter. She thought of Legolas and hoped he would find his place again. She was excited and restless, slipping easily into girlish flights of fancy only to emerge and chastise herself before again falling to their charms. It was silly, really. It would likely be a week before they returned to Rivendell. Mirkwood was two days' hard ride to the east, and they would most likely be slowed by Legolas' weakness. She should not be so anxious. Directing her thoughts elsewhere, though, was a task easier said than done.

Night came. Arwen sat in her room. She was rather tired this evening, and it somewhat confused her, for she had done little that day besides ponder and dream. The weariness had permeated her as she sat upon her bed. It seemed cold and lonely this night.  _You are quite pathetic! It has only been a day and you are already sick with solitude!_

She glanced about her room. It was filled with warm memories of laughter and sadness, of family and love. Her mother had sung to her many melodies of old in this room, filling it with her sweet and soft voice. In here she had played with Elladan and Elrohir. Her father had held her in her grief after her mother had passed into the Grey Havens. This was her life, her place. And though it saddened her, she looked forward to the life she might build for herself in Gondor with enthusiasm and hope.

She heard a firm knocking, and she rose to her feet. "Come in."

The door opened, revealing her father. He afforded her a questioning look, asking politely if his appearance intruded upon her. "Father," she said, stepping forward. Elrond entered her room, closing the door softly behind him. The flickering light of the candles made his firm face glow.

"Daughter," he began. He stood there a moment, tall and powerful. The herald of Gil-galad. The Lord of Rivendell. Though at times he was cold and impassive, she knew his love ran deeper than any would ever see.

However, at present the mighty Elf Lord seemed rather distraught. He wore an uncomfortable expression Arwen had rarely seen him don. Ever composed, he did not often let apprehension reach his face. Yet he stood there, regarding her with eyes that implored her to somehow know his reason for calling upon her without him actually speaking of it. Amused and confused, she asked, "What is it?"

Finally he regained his poise enough to speak. "I wish to say something to you," he admitted. She watched him intently, trying to piece together the answer to this enigma. Abruptly she felt the little child again, struggling to decipher whether her parent was angry with her or not. "It is something I should have told you long ago, but until now I did not have the fortitude." He stared into her eyes. His tone was flat. "I approve."

Confusion caused furrows in her smooth brow. "Father?"

"I approve of him and your decision, my daughter," spoke the master healer. He raised an eyebrow at the obvious joy flooding across her face. "Elladan explained to me Estel's intent. At first I was… apprehensive. Still, he has proven himself worthy of you, and I give you my blessing." He stepped forward, grasping her shoulders. His eyes were deep, filled with ageless wisdom and fathomless love. "It will pain me much to see you leave, but I know you will be happy with him."

They embraced tightly then, and she felt so very warm in his arms. Tears came to her eyes, but she squeezed them shut. She felt so overjoyed, euphoric, secure, and safe. The last of her questions was answered, her final worries appeased. She was content to remain in her father's arms, and in this long, silent moment she felt that nothing would ever again trouble her. She was the child again, finding safety in her father's powerful embrace.

Finally they parted. "Sleep well, Daughter."

She was too moved to speak, so she merely nodded, a lump in her throat nearly painful in its tightness. With a swish of his robes, the powerful Elf turned and quit her room.

It was a dream. She stood a moment, tingling, unsure of the reality in what had just transpired. Then an astonished and foolishly wide smile crept to her face. Sleep? Her heart pounded in excitement and ecstasy. How could she sleep?

She thought to sing. Her voice was shaking in sheer emotion as she began the first melody that came to her muddled mind. A cool breeze swept through the open window, bringing the smell of flowers and falling water, and she yearned to fly.  _Aragorn, we are free! Free!_ She imagined his laughing eyes, his arms around her. She danced with the ghost of his form.

Arwen fumbled in her song and laughed. The future lay before her, bright and promising. Wherever that path took her, she knew Aragorn would be at her side. Together, they would live and die.

Nothing could be more beautiful.

* * *

For three days they rode. To Legolas, it was a terrible eternity of endless worry and disquiet. Though Gimli and Aragorn sought to distract him with tales of their journey after they had been separated at Amon Hen, he found little was interesting enough to steal his attention away from his apprehension. Each step was a torturous reminder of the many left to take, each moment a foul indication of time yet to pass. He had always counted himself to have a measure of patience, but this lengthy journey was truly trying.

His own weariness did not aid their speed. As much as he sought to ignore or deny, he grew fatigued easily. Sitting atop Arod for any extended period of time left his healing body cramped and exhausted. Arod appeared to sense his discomfort at least and made every effort to ease his steps upon the ground. Still, it was not enough to extend his endurance any, and for two nights they made camp early and began to travel the following day later than he would have liked. He did not complain about the matter, wishing not to be a burden or nuisance. Even though he despised it, he did much benefit from these extended periods of rest. Though Aragorn had brought along weapons for him, the ranger refused to let Legolas take any sort of watch. He did not put up any resistance. His nerves were already too frayed to allow for any conflict between himself and his friend.

Finally, they reached Mirkwood. The familiar paths led them deeper into the dark and murky forest. It had taken some coaxing to convince the horses to venture into the forbidding mess of limb and leaf. Legolas knew these roads well, having many times in the past followed them during trips to Rivendell or in a hunting expedition. The dark woods were tangled with vines and gnarled branches. Even with the defeat of Sauron, the gloom had hardly receded and left the place frightening and disheartening to all whom entered. They rode quickly and carefully. Aragorn's eyes were constantly scanning the maze of thick trunks, searching for any sign of danger and threat. Legolas' heart hammered in his chest. He had held his breath since entering Mirkwood's unmarked borders.

"Halt!" came a cry from behind them. Legolas jerked in the saddle, pulling Arod's reins tight as the massive horse stepped about. Aragorn ripped around and was met by the threat of a score of notched arrows. "You are trespassing on the lands of King Thranduil! State your business in these woods!"

It was a patrol. Legolas glanced to them, recognizing many of the faces. In particular, its leader was an experienced warrior by the name of Telethir, who had for many years been the captain of his father's guard. Legolas had hunted with most of these Elves, joined them in patrols and battles against the menaces of their home. In fact, it had been Telethir himself who had taken him upon his first ventures into the wild as a young warrior.

He was not fast enough to avert his eyes, and one of the other Elves in the patrol gasped. "Prince Legolas!" Shock widened his gaze, and he dropped his bow. Immediately he fell to one knee and bowed his head.

The others stared him, scrutinizing him intently in an effort to prove the truth to their disbelieving eyes. A chorus of murmurs went quickly through the group. Their surprise and confusion hurt him. "I… I am so sorry, my Lord. Forgive me," Telethir gasped, immediately lowering his weapon. "I did not recognize you."

Legolas stiffened. Gimli immediately detected his pain and glared icily at the group of Elves. He appeared prepared to insult them for their indiscretion. Aragorn shot the Dwarf a restraining glance, and Gimli submitted, though with an audible huff. Then the ranger turned to the patrol, addressing Telethir with a firm tone. "I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. We are the prince's escorts. He wishes to see the King."

The less experienced Elves muttered once more. There was obvious distrust among them, and the air grew thick with tension. Telethir narrowed his piercing eyes. Legolas knew he, like much of his kind, held no love for men, and even less for Dwarves. "I know who you are, heir of Isildur. I know what you have done. Though rumor is no substitute for truth, it has been enough to convince much of this nation of your guilt. You are not welcome here," he declared lowly, a threat returning to his tone. His glare shifted to Gimli. "Neither of you are."

This was too much for Gimli. "Why you blasted-"

"Peace, Gimli," whispered Legolas. He had quickly regained himself. For now, at least, he was still their prince. He would not have them talk so rudely to his friends. "These two have saved my life. I do not ask for their acceptance, but simply allow them passage." His eyes narrowed dangerously, and he forced bravado into his voice. "I expect you to afford them the respect you afford me. I am still  _your_  prince, though I may not look it. Do not shame me before my companions. Is that clear?"

"But, your Highness," said another of the archers, his long face tense with prejudice, "your father would-"

His glare turned deadly. "My father is my own concern," Legolas countered coldly. Some things never changed, he mused idly as he watched the harsh words sink into the Elves. He was his father's youngest son, and thus his word automatically carried less weight than his brothers'. He had always had a difficult time giving orders to Elves older than he. Sometimes he was glad he was not the heir to the throne, for he doubted he would ever have the power or arrogance to command people as his father and eldest sibling did.

Still, he was angry enough to put aside his dignity. His patience was nonexistent and their prejudice disgusted him now more than ever. "Send forth messengers to alert the King of our arrival. I would like to speak with him as soon as it is convenient." His voice was cold and left no room for question. The other Elves stood, transfixed at amazed at the sudden vehemence in his voice. Legolas did not doubt it was strange thing to them. Not only were they faced with a very changed prince, never before had he ever snapped so sharply at any of his father's people.

They stood transfixed a moment more, paralyzed and stupefied by the transformed lord before them. Then one of the Elves took off in a run, seeking to carry out his lord's demands. Telethir nodded. "As you wish, my Prince. Let us be off then."

And so they were. The patrol led them through the thick woods with ease, traveling memorized paths blankly. Legolas' emotions were a mess of pride and pain. He felt their quick glances, sensing their surprise, disgust, and pity. It affected him greatly, and he wanted nothing more than to dig his heels into Arod and take off in a run to hide in the forest. Still, he forced his racing heart to slow and his distressed mind into some sort of tranquility. He would not be such a coward in his own home.

Gimli chuckled behind him. Legolas raised an eyebrow at the sound, though the Dwarf could not see it. "What amuses you so, Master Dwarf?" asked the archer quietly, his characteristic peace returning to his voice.

"You are quite the prince, Elf, and a tough one at that!" he answered softly, his tone merry with delight. "I must confess that during our journey I thought you a rather weak example. You could not even conquer my wit in our grandest arguments! Oft I wondered how you ever managed to rule over your own people when your command over your own tongue was so poor." He laughed again. Legolas smiled. Indeed there had been more than few occasions during the Fellowship's trials in which he had been infuriated into a frustrated silence by Gimli's constant insulting retorts and clever reversals. He had to admit that he found it somewhat amazing that a Dwarf could be so wily in the ways of logic. "Now I see that such a thought may have been premature. That was a worthy display of fortitude, my dear Elf, especially from you! I daresay my own kin could hardly manage such disgust in their voices, and we Dwarves are finely skilled in the art of argument." Gimli patted his back.

Legolas was tempted to discredit Gimli's belief, knowing that it was an exaggeration. In all his long life, this was perhaps the first time he had ever been so harsh. But he was content enough to accept the praise. He smiled coyly, feeling a bit of relief come to his worried heart. "They had it coming," he responded softly.

The Dwarf grunted again with barely contained laughter and then grew silent. They rode a bit farther, and Legolas found it increasingly difficult to remain calm. For so long had he yearned to return to his home! It had been a driving force bringing him hope and strength through his captivity. His love of this place, of these ancient trees that now shunned him, had carried him through the darkest times of shadow. It was his pride as a prince that driven him to defy, to stand tall against Saruman and his minions.

And it hurt deeply to know that he was now forever its outcast. Never had he imagined such a painful homecoming!

Time passed without meaning. The woods became brighter as they passed the great Forest River, and they came upon the realm of the Silvan Elves. Legolas felt tears sting his eyes and his heart was still in tension. He saw familiar places as they entered the city. Familiar faces. Roads and paths he knew so well. It all seemed alien, now, distant and cold. As their small group rode through the area, many stopped and stared, utterly shocked at the reappearance of their prince. Whispers and gasps resounded through his aching head, and it took all his concentration to ignore the agony within him. He kept his eyes lowered, wishing not to look upon his people, yearning that they not see him as such. Through the thick mass of trees and homes, they traveled, and this trek had never before seemed so endless. The Elves' shame and sadness at his sight slammed into him like a battering ram, and concentrating on steadily breathing was all he could do to keep himself tethered to his horse. The silence within, with which he thought he had finally begun to make peace, becoming a blaring chorus of shrill quiet, and he quivered.

A compassionate pair of eyes fell upon him. "Are you well, Legolas?" Aragorn whispered. He had pulled Hasufel close to Arod at seeing his friend's suffering.

Legolas managed to raise his eyes, stilling his shaking form. He sucked in a deep breath to compose himself and concentrated on Aragorn, ignoring the void within and the pity and disgust without. "Yes, Aragorn," he answered. "This is… unnerving."

"Aye." The archer looked to the ranger and shared with him a sympathetic moment. He had missed Aragorn's own awkward discomfort at arriving in Thranduil's stronghold. The looks he received were not of pity, but of hate. Legolas wondered vaguely which was more disheartening. They were quite a sight, the three of them. The prince pitied, the man scorned, and the Dwarf shunned.

Finally they reached the palace. It was situated within a mountain, its great gates the only sign of its existence. Its courtyard was a magnificent display of wealth and pride, adorned with the beautiful banners of the House of Oropher. Flowers of all colors, sizes, and shapes hung from the stone arches. He remembered how his mother had loved the flora. She had taken special care to maintain them during her living years, conscientiously pruning and doting upon them as she would her own kin. She once explained to a young Legolas the name and lore behind every bloom. The king had been less than pleased with the feminine appearance of his grand gates, but all knew his disdain to be light indeed, for though he often complained never did he reprimand and always did he smile at his wife's loving ministrations to the gardens. Since the Queen's death, the flowers had not been touched. They were overrun with other growth, their meticulous pattern lost in a bed of all sorts of greens. It seemed more a miniature forest now than a garden.

The gate guards watched Legolas in obvious shock, their faces ashen and stricken as the visitors dismounted. Telethir stood before the palace entrance, his stature firm. "You can go no further," he said, nodding towards the Dwarf and man. "Though I respect your orders, my Prince, I answer directly to your father, and his rules must not be broken." His eyes narrowed. "Foreigners are not welcomed within the House of Thranduil."

Gimli growled, and Aragorn open his mouth to protect, but Legolas raised his hand to quiet their anger. "It is well," he said before turning to them. He afforded his friends a small smile that betrayed how very nervous he was. "This is something I must do alone."

Aragorn met his gaze then and nodded. "We shall await your return here." In his eyes was an offering of hope and strength, and Legolas received his friend's affection with a nod of his own. Then he turned. For a moment he closed his eyes and sighed slowly to bring himself resolution.  _Go now and do what you came to do. Do not be dissuaded._

Moments later he was inside the palace. People and places moved around him in a blur, and he paid attention to nothing. He had erected a shell around his heart, guarding him from pain and sorrow. Numb and distant, he instructed a servant to bring to him a satchel so that he might collect a few valuables from his room. After, he walked those long, dark, familiar halls blindly and dumbly, refusing to let the warm and comforting aura within this manor reach his heart and cause him longing. He did not want to second-guess himself, or be distracted by woe at his departure. He refused to acknowledge how very good it felt to again be home.

The stares grew worse. He could hear them whispering, wondering, watching. They did not know how much their innocent astonishment and pity hurt him. He dashed as fast as he could to his room and slipped inside on light footfalls. Closing the heavy door behind him, he pressed his back to the cool, oak slab. For a moment, he simply stayed as such, leaning against the wood for support. He closed his eyes and willed his racing heart to slow and his mind to abandon its torment of him. Everything spun and swirled around him, voices long past filling his ears, and he breathed heavily. When he felt strong enough again, he opened his eyes.

His room was as he had left it. His large bed was dressed in new linens; the maids, at least, had expected his arrival. They had also taken it upon themselves to dust and clean, for the oaken furniture looked recently polished and the floor was immaculate. It seemed as though no time had passed at all between these walls. He remembered the day of his departure for Rivendell many months prior. He had been so very eager to leave and be rid of his father's anger and his brothers' spite that he had not taken much time to appreciate the comforts of his sanctum before racing out of its door. Had he known how much time would pass. Had he known how very different he would be upon his return…

Legolas swallowed the knot in his throat.  _There will be another room, another place. It is only stone and wood._

The cold thoughts hurt, but they also bolstered his resolve, and he stepped forward. The leather bag he rested upon his bed. Mindlessly he began to pick through his drawers, grabbing a few things he wished to take with him. Though Lord Elrond had asked his tailors to produce a few new sets of clothing for Legolas, the archer still took a pair or two of breeches and some tunics from his overfilled closets. He looked remorsefully at the clothes for a moment. Some of them he had never worn, given to him by the seamstresses a few weeks before his departure. Panged with an irrational guilt, he replaced the worn trousers and shirts and gently removed the new garments. He knew they had worked hard on them. It would be quite unbecoming of him to leave them to waste.

He went to his dresser and pulled open the top drawer. There was a red velvet pouch within it. He took it into his hands, cradling it gently. Within it was the only thing he had left of his mother. To each of her sons at their birth, she had given a piece of her precious jewelry so they might always have a sense of her near. Legolas had received a simple charm of a green and gold leaf attached to a gold chain. She had explained it to him once when he had been very young. The necklace had been a gift from her mother when she wed Thranduil. She in turn had given it to her last-born son, to remind him always that he had been named for the splendor of the forest. It was not overly valuable, but meant a great deal to him. It was another sign of his mother's love of all things verdant and bountiful.

A knock at the door nearly caused him to jump. He shook his head to clear it, his heart again pounding away with an unreasonable fury in his chest. He swallowed his fright and turned.

The door opened before he had even a chance to voice a protest. In the portal now stood Vardaithil.

The two brothers stared at one another for quite some time, silent and unsure. The crown prince's face was torn between a great many things, and Legolas could not discern the emotions swirling in his lord's eyes. It was as if both had known this meeting was possible, but neither wanted to accept that it had indeed occurred. That any of what had happened had happened at all. "The gate guards said you had returned," Vardaithil finally softly announced. The comment was empty. His piercing eyes fell to the bag on the bed and widened a bit. "Returning only to leave again, it seems."

His mood puzzled Legolas, who greatly feared wrath or rejection. He doubted he could withstand an argument. Seldom had he quarreled with his oldest brother in the past, for Vardaithil too much reminded him of their father, and that was a force with which one did not readily trifle. The thought of such reproach and anger from his sibling tore at his already weakened heart. "I cannot stay," he finally managed in a small voice. He shook his head sadly and walked back to the bed. "Not like this."

There was quiet then. He began to stuff the folded clothes into the bag, feeling sweat bead upon his brow. "I do not blame you, my brother," Vardaithil admitted finally. His voice had lost its edge. He stepped inside the room, and Legolas busied himself with packing to ignore his brother's powerful presence. When there was nothing left to put inside the satchel, he helplessly looked up and focused his gaze on the opposite wall.

Vardaithil shook his head glumly, his face sorrowful and grave. "It should not have been like this," he said. "All that we have lost… it should not end as such." His hand tentatively fell upon Legolas' slim shoulder and slowly tightened in its affectionate grasp. He was so careful, as though the being before him were more glass than flesh, glass that might shatter under the weight of his fingers. "I am so sorry, Legolas."

"Nay, Vardaithil," said the archer, turning around to face his kin. "Many have said those words to me in the last weeks, and I do not want to hear them any longer. It is no more your fault than it is mine. This is a pain I wish you would not bear."

The crown prince's voice dropped to a tortured whisper. Legolas had never before seen Vardaithil so upset, so visibly riled. His stoic mask of control and arrogance had all but fallen away, revealing a frightened and hurt Elf seeking some sort of solace. "Let me say this apology, my dear brother. I would have you hear it even if you do not want it, for it would much ease me to know you understand." He faltered for a second, his eyes dropping in shame and grief. "I cannot undo the wrongs I have done. I knew there was much anger between you and Astaldogald, but I did not intervene and the hate grew stronger. It was  _I_  who allowed this spite to fester and divide us. It is my duty to protect my kingdom, but it is also my duty to protect my brothers, and in that I failed. I failed terribly. Astaldogald is dead and you… you are lost."

"I am not lost, my Lord. I stand before you now, do I not?"

"You are not as you once were, Legolas. You will never be again."

"But I am your brother, and that is all that is important."

Vardaithil did not appear convinced by his words. He grasped Legolas by the shoulders. "I thought you were dead," he said quietly. "For the longest time you were silent, cold within me, and I lost hope. After Astaldogald was killed and Aratadarion told me of you, I did not want to have faith again. Your silence was a blinding fury to me then. I was a coward for letting it consume me, for letting it direct me. But now… I think I can understand. I think I can forgive. There is more to life, I suppose, than who you are. There is what you have done, and who you love." His lips bent into a small smile, as though amused at his own comments.

After, he released Legolas, and his princely manner quickly reclaimed his face. "I shall miss your skill with a bow at my side during our patrols, brother. I may look, but I know I will never replace it." He headed towards the door. "You will see Father before you leave?"

Legolas said, "Of course."

"Good. Farewell, Legolas."

The door shut with a soft thud. Legolas watched it blankly a moment, unsure of what to think or feel. The exchange was enigmatic to say the least. As he pondered, he began to comprehend. To lower his guard and show his true emotions was a difficult task for Vardaithil. The crown prince had been trained to forever distance himself from his subjects, cold and stoic at all times. In his own strange way, Vardaithil had just made his peace. Legolas could not ask any more of him.

Alone once more but resolved, he collected his things and set off to find his father. Outside he encountered another page who bore a message that his father awaited him in his study. Steadfast but nervous, he made his way towards the king's most private of places. He had not often before ever ventured into his father's study. It was the place the lord meditated, where he pondered private and important matters, where he sought silence and peace from the throbbing chaos of leadership. He was not sure he wanted to breach his father's quiet.

His feet carried him, for his mind was lost to the words stampeding through it. What might he say? What could he say? The truth suddenly seemed a terrible option. Surely his father would fault him for what he had done, for the fight he had brought between himself and Astaldogald, for the shame and dishonor he had levied upon this House. Time was a blur, and all too quickly did he arrive at the dark door to his father's study.

He stood there, struggling to compose himself, fighting to calm his racing pulse and breath. It would do him no good to appear so frazzled before his sire. He raised his hand to knock, but could not find the courage to rap upon that door.  _This is foolish. You cannot show him what you have become!_

"Come inside, Legolas."

He stiffened and dropped his hand in surprise. He could never fool the shrewd and agelessly wise creature that was his father. Submitting to the inevitability of this confrontation, he grasped the knob, turned it slowly, and opened the door.

It was dark within the study. Shadows swept across the room, obscuring the table and chairs, hiding the murals painted upon the stone walls. Yet it was warm and smelled of sweet incense and perfume, the sort his mother had always worn during the summer. A fire crackled brightly in a brick hearth, spreading golden illumination throughout a small sitting area. In a chair facing the fire sat the King.

Tentatively he stepped inside. "I am sorry to disturb you, my Lord," he finally murmured when he found his voice.

There was a rustle of movement, of cloth gliding upon skin. Thranduil rose from his plush chair gracefully, and when he did, the room grew grander. The Elf King was a powerful force, his face firm and strong, his eyes ancient and knowing. Yet now they gleamed with something not quite discernable. Legolas gazed upon his father again, and felt the little Elf once more, marveling at the impressive creature's potent aura and stature. "I am glad you returned," murmured the King.

The moment was awkward then as father and son lapsed into a silence laden with unvoiced pain. In his youth, Legolas had never had trouble addressing his father, for he had been quite the flamboyant and joyous little Elf, and Thranduil had loved his youngest son dearly. Their mindsets had served to separate them, and that trust, once shattered, had never been as it once was. It was bond not easily reborn. The harsh words shared prior to his departure again rang in his mind.  _"You seek to hate, Father, hate without reason! That is madness! We have lost Sméagol and that is a terrible tiding! We must warn Lord Elrond's House!"_

_"You understand so little, my son. Involving yourself with the likes of men will do naught but hurt you. This House suffered for the greed of their kind. Do not ever forget that, Legolas. The same blood from my father runs in your veins. You are an Elf, not a pawn in the game of men!"_

_"This world is ours as well, even if we do not want to defend it. I will go, if you will not. I will speak of Sméagol's escape to Lord Elrond, and I will help him in any way I can."_

_"Do not sacrifice yourself for a cause not your own."_

_"It is theirs, so it is mine. Goodbye, Father!"_

Tears filled his eyes. He was so ashamed. "I did not mean to hurt you," he whispered, losing himself in a river of swirling guilt and grief. "I did not mean to bring this disgrace upon your House! I am so very sorry."

Thranduil stepped closer. He seemed incredibly tall, towering over his son. "Do not apologize, Legolas. It is you who has lost much from this disaster. My pride is but a small grievance."

Legolas shook his head. "But Astaldogald! You must know, Father, of all that really happened. Aratadarion mayhap sought to hide the truth for its ugliness, but I cannot live with this hurt."

Thranduil smiled knowingly, his deep eyes gleaming with a sad mirth. "And what truth is that?" he asked. "That there was a great fight between you and your brother? That his death was more the result of your conflict than of any danger set upon you? That your loyalty to a man sundered the ties between you?" Legolas' eyes widened. Could it be his father already knew the truth? Thranduil nodded, as if somehow understanding his unspoken thought. "You can hide nothing from me, my son. Do not forget that I am your father, and I know you very well. I know your brothers just as intimately." He sighed then and turned, leaving his son dumbfounded and amazed. "It is my fault more than any, I suppose. I saw the anger between you for many years. I saw the hate grow. Astaldogald's envy was a terrible force that crushed his good sense sometimes, and you were always quite willing to push him even further." Legolas opened his mouth to protest the accusation, but at his father's sharp glance, he wisely chose not to speak. "I can fault neither of you for what has happened. Neither can I condone you both. Both of you instigated this turmoil. I doubt I will ever know who dealt the killing blow, and poor Aratadarion would rather blame himself than name the culprit."

Silence. Legolas' soul shriveled with guilt. Instantly he regretted all he had said over the years in return to Astaldogald's hurtful jibes. He wished immensely he might have once just had the humility to concede the point for the sake of his family's sanity. "I am sorry, father," he murmured, bowing his head in shame. "I have acted the child."

"Perhaps. You have acted  _my_  child. I do understand the course of events that led to the downfall of my sons. You were both given quite a gift from your blood: pride. Yours is a quiet, gentle sort, fierce only in the face of adversity. Astaldogald harbored a honor that bordered on cruelty and arrogance. Yet it was pride all the same that would allow neither of you to ever reach an agreement, to concede defeat, to make amends. No matter the mindset, you both set to defend it with all your being." Thranduil sighed softly, turning his eyes to the fire crackling noisily in the hearth. "It saddens me that it came to this."

Legolas did not respond. The pain was fresh upon him, and he closed his eyes against the tears. His bleeding heart grew weary, and he felt the darkness of the curse rise within him. Too numb to do much else, he sagged into the shadow.

"I do not blame you, Legolas." He opened his eyes at his father's words. Though the king's face was stern and impassive, his eyes spoke of his concern. "I would not. Much has been lost. If there was a punishment at all for such behavior, you have paid it ten-fold." His father's face grew taut with hidden anger and grief. "There is… no way to remove it?"

Legolas lowered his eyes again. "Mithrandir knew of no means, and he is now the strongest of all the Istari. Believe me, Father, I have tried! And I struggled, I swear this to you. I did not easily submit to this…"

Thranduil remained silent a moment. Legolas could not bring himself to look at his father's face, fearing disgust and rejection. This would be the final blow. He felt himself sink, and he nearly welcomed it.

A strong hand reached forth and grasped his chin. Thranduil lifted his son's face and forced Legolas to meet his gaze. They said nothing, locked in the moment, eyes searching souls for absolution and resolution. Legolas felt himself shaking as his father looked upon him. His gaze was fathomless, void of emotion. Then Thranduil released him. The Elf Lord turned, facing the fire once more. His large fingers came to grab the back of the chair in support. Legolas nearly missed the barely perceptible motion. "I wish I could ease your pain, my son. Were it possible, I would have taken your place."

Legolas snapped from the blackness and quickly shook his head, though his father could not see the movement. "Nay, Father. I would never wish such torment upon you. This fate is my choice, my burden to bear. I will bear it."

"Ask what you will of me, then, and I will do what I can to ease your suffering."

This was the moment. The final step. It lingered before him, and he stood upon the precipice, wondering if this was truly the end. Could he finally be free? Could he finally regain his spirit? Silence. A heartbeat, a breath. "I have come to bid you farewell, Father. And I would like for you to let me go."

Quiet. A void of emptiness, cold and incomplete. Thranduil turned then, and even he was unable to hide his surprise. It was etched deeply into his face. "Let you go?" he whispered.

Legolas nodded and began to speak, praying he would not now in this vital instance lose his courage. "I cannot put this upon you, my Lord. I would not force you to ask it of me." His eyes narrowed. "I would leave, renounce my place as your prince. It is the only punishment fitting. I took it upon myself to become one of the Nine Walkers. In doing so, I shirked my duty to you and to this kingdom. Though I believed and still do consider the choice to be a moral one, I erred greatly. A prince should never make such a vital decision himself. A prince cannot weigh one duty as more important than another. Even if I was been instrumental in preventing harm to Middle Earth, I forsook you and our people in a time of need." He released a slow breath. "Now I will leave you, and let this wound heal."

"Legolas, there are other ways to reach absolution. We might rise above this," Thranduil said simply. There was a hidden wistful note in his voice, but Legolas detected it. He resisted the urge to smile. "You need not divide yourself from your making."

"Father, if I am to regain any sense of myself, I  _must_  do this. Please. It has taken much of my will to surmount my despair. Only through the love of my friends have I come to terms with the loss of my immortality." Thranduil stiffened slightly. Legolas dropped his tone. "I would not ask you to do the same and accept this terrible truth. I do not want to remain here and force you to love me, and then one day have to watch helplessly as I wither. That is not a pain our people understand, and it is not one I would willingly put upon you."

Thranduil regarded him calmly, no hint of his inner thoughts evident in his dark eyes. Legolas remained in the moment, waiting desperately for some sort of answer. "Please," he whispered. "I must find my peace."

The king finally smiled. In his gaze sparkled tears. Tears of joy. Tears of sadness. "My son," he whispered hoarsely, his voice rough with emotion. He grasped his child's shoulders, and spoke the nickname he had given him when he was only a babe. "My little Greenleaf! So much the gift of your mother. You possess a beauty that sets you apart from your kin, a precious innocence so deep and pure. She gave you her heart, and you have done her such justice with it!" In a rare moment of love, he encircled his mighty arms tightly around his youngest son.

Legolas sank into his chest. The tears spilled from clenched eyes as he nuzzled his cheek into his father's strong shoulder. He smelled as he had thousands of years ago, of woods and wine and warmth. Those strong arms tightened, and Legolas felt safe. Whole. "It will pain me much to see you go! In losing you, I fear I have lost her once more," Thranduil admitted, his hands smoothing his son's long blond hair. "But I will be heartened by your strength. The shadow did not take you. I had so feared it might, but it did not! I am proud of you, my son."

The words wrought within him such joy, such intense, burning happiness, that he could scarcely breathe as his heart swelled in his chest. Such a wonderful moment! In the end, his father had forgiven him. In the end, his father still loved him.

They parted. Thranduil smiled weakly, his own cheeks damp. He then pressed his lips to his son's brow. Finally, he looked into Legolas' eyes. "Know this," he breathed. "Though I send you away from my home, I will never send you away from my heart."

Legolas could not find his voice to speak, so overwhelmed by emotion, so he merely nodded. It was more than he could have expected. So much more!

His father nodded firmly then, and turned back to the fire. Legolas watched him, his body tingling, his heart rushing. In that instance, he loved his father more than he had ever before. It was a final moment of peace between them, of understanding, and in it a bond was restored. It would sustain them both. He had taken the last step. "Goodbye, Father."

"Goodbye, my son."

* * *

Aratadarion questioned his sanity yet again. From his vantage, he could clearly see the man and the Dwarf as they waited. Were he not so distracted with doubt, he might have considered his present actions somewhat craven, for the manner in which he had positioned himself in the shadows of the courtyard's great stone pillars so that his form was obscured from distant sight could be construed as nothing but hiding. Still, he remained in their concealing shroud, pondering what it was he hoped to accomplish. Word had spread quickly of Legolas' return and of the youngest son's plans of leaving. Both facts had puzzled Aratadarion at first, but he slowly realized the events to be inevitable. There was no place for a mortal Elf in Mirkwood, no matter who that Elf had been.

He had ventured forth from his room, quietly making his way to the courtyard. Much of his father's House was still in mourning over Astaldogald's death, and he himself had rarely left the security and peace of his private place in the weeks past. He still felt terribly weak from it all, his heart at times so heavy with guilt, grief, and hurt that it quaked with the strain. He had sought no solace, for the only one of his family that ever truly understood him was dead. The king, he supposed, had sensed the falsehood in the tale he had told concerning Astaldogald's demise. Still, he would rather the blame be shifted upon himself and this feud between man and Elf end than be continued by his twin's blood.

But he had taken this small risk. In the days prior, none had interrupted him in his grieving, for he had always been a meek Elf that needed solitude more than companionship. The peace had been his only comfort, the silence strong and loud enough to blot out memories of laughter. He had been afraid to face others, consumed by sorrow. Yet he knew that if he should allow his youngest sibling to part with them forever without seeing him one last time, he would come later to regret it. This desire was enough to drive him from his seclusion.

Yet Legolas was not there. Obviously, the young archer still had business within their father's palace. So he stood, eyeing the man and Dwarf skeptically, fighting this urge to reveal himself to them. What good would it do, at any rate? Why reopen a wound that had barely begun to heal? He closed his eyes and released a slow breath. The answers to these questions he knew well, even if he did not desire to accept them. The tension was still there, painful and angry. There was peace yet to be had. These two had done much for Legolas. It would be rather unbecoming him to simply brush aside their devotion to his brother. In Gondor, he had sacrificed Legolas' well being for loyalty to his people, placing in Aragorn's hands the fragile and fading life. And Aragorn had obviously done all Aratadarion had asked of him. He could not in good conscience let such a deed go unheeded.

He drew within him a deep, cleansing breath and collected what remained of his equanimity. He moved from behind the pillar and walked to the man and Dwarf.

The ranger focused his gaze upon him as he approached, turning his attention from tending his horse. A brief look of pain and uncertainty crossed the young man's face as he met Aratadarion's gaze. Then he lowered his head respectfully. "Prince Aratadarion," greeted Aragorn. The Dwarf merely nodded, his small eyes cold and suspicious.

Aratadarion stopped before them, wondering again why he sought to further pain himself over these matters. Somehow he managed a small smile. "You are brave indeed," he commented finally, "to journey into these lands. Your devotion to my brother runs deep."

"Should Legolas ask it of us, we would follow him to Mordor," boasted Gimli proudly.

The comment bothered Aratadarion, but he made a great effort to keep his face impassive. He turned to Aragorn, offering the man a grateful gaze. A silence thick in awkward tension descended, and Aratadarion nearly lost his resolve. He fought to hold to it, though. He had sworn to himself and to the spirit of his twin, which always remained within him, that he would not let this pain fester. "I came to… offer my thanks. If not for you, I am sure Legolas would have lost his will to live at all." He released a slow, long breath. This was very difficult for him. "In the end, you did more to save him through your love than we could."

Aragorn's face relaxed visibly. Relief glowed his eyes. "I would not take such credit, my Lord," came his gentle response. Then his expression collapsed into one of much trouble and regret, and he lowered his tone. "In fact, I should apologize." The ranger opened his hands helplessly. "I never meant to cause such distress within your family. Had I known it would come to this…" He sighed in frustration, obviously finding the words inadequate. "I am sorry that I took Legolas from you."

Aratadarion struggled to maintain that tiny smile. Legolas had regretted the very same action when they had laid Boromir to rest in Minas Morgul. It was simply another indication of his brother's likeness to this scruffy ranger. "You are closer to his heart than I could ever hope to be, Aragorn. I cannot fault you for understanding him."

Gimli spoke finally, having watched the exchange silently. "I do suppose I as well owe you an apology, Elf," he admitted begrudgingly. Aratadarion settled his gaze upon the stout warrior, surprise plain on his pale face. "I must admit that I had no faith in you. Ere we parted paths in Isengard, I lost hope, believing Legolas' rescue to be improbable at best. I was obviously mistaken."

It was the most sincere thing he had ever heard from a Dwarf. He afforded Gimli a curt nod. He then looked once more to Aragorn and lowered his voice to a murmur. "As for… what happened in Minas Tirith, I have ensured that no wrath shall fall upon you. I cannot guarantee you will be regarded highly within these borders, but I have spared you any retribution." Aragorn's eyes glimmered with confusion and relief, and he opened his mouth to speak. The Elf interrupted him. "Let us forever keep the truth a secret. It will cause only our families strife, and I would rather not create bad blood between Elves and men or Mirkwood and Rivendell. Enough exists already."

Slowly the ranger closed his mouth. His gaze grew hard in determination, and he nodded firmly. "I will do as you ask," he promised, "and only swear to you my undying gratitude. I would express my apologies, but I know they mean so little compared to your loss."

Aratadarion felt the tears build in his eyes, but he only blinked them back. The agony was still too close to his heart, and he wished not to appear weak before them. "You will take care of Legolas?" he asked carefully, finding his voice rough and pained.

The other nodded resolutely. "Aye. No harm will ever come to him."

"And you will stay with him when the moment comes?" His tone was quiet and laden with unspoken meaning. For Elves, death was such a foreign and frightening concept. He wished not to have his younger brother face such terrifying uncertainty alone.

At this, Aragorn only bobbed his head slowly. This was enough to appease Aratadarion's fears, and the Elf relaxed. He did not doubt the ranger would keep this solemn vow.

Legolas emerged then from the palace carrying a small satchel. Aratadarion turned at his appearance and found himself staring in wonder at his brother. Life had returned to him, his features glowing, his eyes bright. He limped as he walked, and he seemed rather thin and ashen, but he had climbed from beneath the smothering weight of depression. His recovery was remarkable. If not for the stark silence within him, the Elf prince might have thought his brother free from the curse. It was truly amazing!  _Perhaps there is a chance yet. Surely there is!_

As he neared, Legolas smiled. One of the guards took his bag and attached it to the white horse's saddle. "I feared I might miss you, brother," said Legolas.

Aratadarion did not trust his voice to speak, so he expressed his relief and sadness in a tight hug. The brothers embraced for a long moment, content in this brief reunion. So much they had endured! So much they had lost!

"Thank you," Legolas whispered, "for all you have done for me!"

Deep inside Aratadarion flushed with pleasure at the words, and he squeezed his little brother tighter. Never did he want to release him. They were young again in that moment, before this peril had befallen them, before the hate had torn them apart. With them as well was the spirit of a brother lost. Aratadarion felt his twin's presence; it was a warm and comforting balm to the last of his pain. "Please do not hate him," pleaded the meek Elf gently, closing his eyes tightly against the sting of his tears. "He regretted all he did in the end, Legolas. I saw it in his eyes! He was so very sorry! He never meant to hurt you."

Legolas pulled back. In his deep blue gaze was a calm, the same calm he had often had before his departure. It was a look borne from their mother, and it signified his understanding. His peace. "I know," he said softly. "And I am grateful for all he sacrificed for me. You will tell him that, will you not, Aratadarion? I should much like for him to someday know how much I love him."

His heart healed, knowing his warring brothers had found their amity. Now there was nothing left to do but live. "Aye, little brother. I will."

"Be at peace always, Aratadarion."

Then Legolas turned. The man and the Dwarf were ready, having watched the exchange with solemn eyes. Legolas mounted the great white horse, pulling Gimli up behind him. Aragorn climbed atop the massive brown stallion, turning the animal around. They began to walk away, the guards escorting them from the courtyard.

The Elf prince stood and watched, feeling light, feeling whole. He heard the Dwarf's distant voice as the trio departed. "It is done then, Master Elf?"

"Aye," answered Legolas, "all is well."

 _All is well. Indeed, it is!_ Aratadarion raised his eyes to the bright, blue sky and smiled.  _There is your peace, my beloved Astaldogald. Take it now, and be free!_ Liberated, his spirit rose. His heart escaped the prison of self-doubt, of loss and pain, and knew the warmth of forgiveness and of success. At long last he found himself. At long last he had become his father's son.

* * *

All was quiet in Lothlórien this eve, and the Lady of the Golden Wood was weary. Yet it was not an exhaustion based upon sadness or pain, but one of simple completion. Her mind felt numb, relaxed, and she could not find a care to concern her this beautiful night. She rested in her cove, pondering of all and none, of what was, what had been, and perhaps what was yet to come. The stars shone upon her, and she glowed with her diminishing power. Aye, the Lady was tired this eve, but she had done much to restore Middle Earth to a state of peace. Rest was well deserved.

She stood still and felt the forest breathe around her. The leaves sang an ancient melody. The cool ground was firm and resolute, pure again without the poison of evil seeping into it. The air was sweet and soft against her, pressing with the magical caress of messages from distant lands. She knew all, understood the words that Middle Earth spoke. It saddened her somewhat, for her time in this wondrous place was coming slowly to an end. The sea was calling her, beckoning her to partake the final journey of her life. Her strength to ignore it was all but depleted. She had passed all tests pressed upon her, done all her love for this land had bid her to do. There was nothing left now but to enjoy the last hours and days she would spend in this glorious and beautiful forest.

The world told her things this night. Some things she understood, and some things she did not. She saw the intricate weaving of fate and knew its course. Much had been restored to the way things might have been. The visions from her mirror that had so distressed her months prior had not come to pass. A great many had sacrificed their lives so that it might be prevented, and for them she spoke a soft Elvish blessing. Time passed, and though things had somehow balanced in their favor this time, she knew it was only temporary. The forces of good and evil remained always in a precarious state. One would never dominate the way of things for long, and without a doubt eventually the balance would shift and return suffering to the peoples of this world. Worry filled her heart. She knew she would not be here to help the forces of right when the time came. Still, her wisdom was great, and she knew that such concerns were best left alone. Others would surely have strength enough to overcome the great obstacles.

In the whispers there was news from distant forests. The breeze smelled vaguely of moss and shadow, of Mirkwood. The grand, old trees were speaking to her across the great expanse between them, sharing news she had hoped one day would come. Their son was returning. Their son would again find his way to the light. A small smile twisted thin, pink lips, her eyes distant with relief and understanding. The vitality of the Elf could not be undone by the darkest shadow, it seemed. The burning light of their extraordinary companionship could not be extinguished by the heaviest black breath!

The dissonance of one lost had disappeared, now becoming understanding and confidence.

The terror of one alone was no more, now growing into a sense of friendship and pride.

The shame of one corrupted had passed away, now resting peacefully with redemption.

The pain of one imprisoned was gone, now replaced by a tender promise of hope.

The course of the future had been changed, and now all would be as it should.

Still, there were some things that disturbed the peace she felt within. Like a needling whisper, she felt another song come to her, a melody of waves crashing against a shore and beating rocks, of gulls crying their invitations overhead, of the water murmuring and chanting a call. She recognized the message clearly enough. It was the threat of sea longing, of the pressing upon an Elf to journey to Undying Lands. She knew it well because she was also afflicted by it. This message was not meant for her, but for the Elven spirit freshly liberated from the shadow. Vaguely she sensed grief and sorrow, and she knew that when the time came for the recipient of this message to depart these shores, he would suffer great distress at leaving behind his mortal friends. This tiny bit of depressing news she shoved aside for now, though. He was too newly healed to face another trial. Let him have this moment.

Fate wove around her. She had the power of foresight, of greater knowledge and understanding, and she had used it to aid Middle Earth. She had the power to change the route of things, adjusting the path of time and truth.  _What was and what had been. What is. What is to come. I have done all I could._

The spirit of the planet brushed by her in the air, the soft soil beneath her toes, in the songs of distant people and places. She was filled with an overwhelming light, warm and soft, bringing with it all the power of life. It rewarded her silent appreciation for everything she had endured for the sake of Middle Earth. She welcomed its touch. Often before she had promised herself that in the end she would finally rest. She would let go of her plight, of her power, and follow the path of her kind into the West. Yet this she had always postponed, waiting until she could be sure that all would be well.

She breathed deeply and lived without pain, without fear. Finally free, she did naught but enjoy these quiet moments, feeling Middle Earth swell and pulse all around her.

The end had come. Her peace the world offered, and finally she gratefully accepted it.


	34. But in Dreams

_What an extravagant party!_ thought Sam. So many guests were crowded into Rivendell's beautiful and spacious great hall that he felt so terribly small and lost among all the people. The hall was so bright, the gold, vaulted ceiling glowing with the sparkling light from the chandeliers and candles. It was such an amazing sight to Sam, who had never before witnessed anything with quite so much grandeur. Who would have thought that he, Samwise Gamgee, son of Hamfast and simple Hobbit of the Shire, would ever attend such a gallant occasion?

Merry and Pippin sat near the long table situated against the far wall. Placed upon the clothed surface was food of every sort and texture. There were meats cooked in delicious sauce, fruits tantalizing in both smell and taste, and cheeses and breads enough to feed an army of hungry Hobbits. A few platters of mouth-watering cakes rested at the far end of the long table. The aromas were sensational, permeating throughout the grand hall. It was quite a feast.

Presently the two cousins ate quickly, obviously as taken as Sam with the amount of food before them. The array made every celebration in the Shire seem absolutely mediocre. Merry was laughing quite boisterously at some antic of Pippin. Frodo smiled, chewing a piece of bread. Sam sipped his mead, watching those dancing about the floor. Lord Elrond had invited the best minstrels and musicians in the great Elven city to play at the gathering, and they were quite worthy of their fame. A great many Elves and few men floated across the gleaming floor.

"Hey, Merry, leave some of that for me!" Pippin scrambled over his cousin, reaching with outstretched and wriggling fingers for the last piece of cheese.

Frodo laughed merrily. "One would think that you've never seen food before, Pippin, with the way you're acting!" he declared. His blue eyes glowed in mirth. Sam regarded his dearest friend a moment. It was so relieving to his soul to see Frodo return to the light-hearted nature he had had before the quest. His greatest fear during the trek from Mount Doom to Minas Tirith had concerned Frodo, and he had doubted that his friend would ever again rise from his consuming despair. Though Sam had long forgiven Frodo his lapse atop the fiery volcano, he knew his dear brother had still held the pain tightly within him. The joy he had felt at witnessing Frodo's healing had been strong indeed. How good it was to have his friend back again!

"You don't get to come to one of these more than once," Pippin snapped, snatching the cube of yellow cheese from Merry's hand. His cousin scowled. "I daresay this is the only time I'll get to try much of this food!"

"You always think with your stomach, Pip," Merry chastised, taking the cheese back and then popping it into his mouth. The Hobbit made quite a show of chewing appreciatively and swallowing. He smiled. "Delicious."

"Why, you!"

They squabbled and bantered for a bit, but gradually the conversation turned to the Shire. Tomorrow they would begin their journey home. Sam was not quite sure how he felt about the fact. He was riddled with sadness at parting company with the friends he had made in the Fellowship. So tight a bond had formed between them all that he was not sure how his life might be without their presences. Yet fate directed them each along a different path, and as it had brought them together, it would pull them apart. Such was the way of things, he supposed. Time, whether it brought with it good or bad, marched inevitably onward, and all things came to an end.

It would be good to return home. He had greatly missed his house and his things. Of late he had become increasingly anxious to see his father again. Those silly fantasies about dancing with Rosie Cotton had pushed him through the darkest parts of Mordor, and now they were achingly close to turning into a reality. The simple smells and sights he missed the most, such as the aroma of his house, the feel of his bed, and the rolling, grassy hills. What pleasure would his senses deliver him upon experiencing them again!

And yet he was sorry to leave this life. Though the trials had been harsh and the quest dangerous and difficult, he had grown through it, he knew. He had done a great thing, become something bigger than Samwise Gamgee, a simple Hobbit from the Shire. He did not regret joining Frodo in this quest. He had learned much, experienced more than he thought possible, known such intense jubilation and striking sorrow. He had seen things and people that he knew he would long remember and formulate into the sorts of tales he might one day tell his grandchildren. This had all been such an amazing event that he was sorry to see its conclusion.

He really had done it! He was no weakling, no coward! Though made of simple stuff, he had accomplished extraordinary feats! Never again would he doubt himself!

"Sam?" He broke from his thoughts at Frodo's voice. He turned to his dear friend and blushed at seeing the concern shine in the other's wide eyes. "You seem troubled."

Sam sighed gently and smiled reassuringly. "Nay, Mister Frodo." His eyes grew distant as he gazed around the room, watching as though the entire journey replayed before him. "I'm a might sorry to leave this behind is all."

Frodo grasped his shoulder, his small hand firm in its grip. "It was a bit more than I expected it would be," he admitted, smiling now.

Merry set down his fork upon his plate. "I don't suppose you want to stay, do you, Sam?"

The question surprised him, and he turned to face his friend. "Stay?" he echoed, pondering matter. Then he shook his head. "No, I think not. I've missed home. I'll be happy to go back."

"Imagine the surprise on all their faces! We'll be all the envy, with our tales of Elves and Dwarves and Balrogs! Wait till they hear about all the good we did at Lórien, Merry!" Pippin rambled.

Though they laughed now, each knew that they would bear the smiles as well as the scars forever. Merry and Pippin began to bicker again, about Bagginses and Proudfoots and Brandybucks and Tooks, and Frodo and Sam laughed. Arguing the merits of Hobbit lineages to other Hobbits was such foolery; somehow or other, they were all related to one another, anyway.

When the gaiety died, Merry grinned still. His eyes held a bit of seriousness, though. "Well, that being that, we should just enjoy this last night here. It's too nice a night not to, right?"

"Aye," said Pippin, raising his mug. "A toast! To our friendship. It carried us through the best and worst of times. Let it never falter!"

"And to our comrades, our fellow Walkers. To each let us wish them luck and happiness," Frodo added, lifting his own drink.

"To the Fellowship of the Ring!"

Four mugs clanked against each other, frothy mead splashing over the sides. Each Hobbit drank then and grew silent as he did, thinking on private matters. The emptiness became quite unusual for them, and thus inexplicably difficult to break.

Through the crowd of people emerged Gandalf. He spotted his Hobbit friends and smiled, breaking free from whatever business to which he had been attending. His long stride quickly carried him to the four. "Gandalf!" cried Frodo, and he stood to greet the ancient wizard.

Sam rose as well, albeit a bit slowly due to his still sore leg. The Istar grinned at them widely, laying a giant hand on Frodo's shoulder. "Trust the Hobbits to take root near the food table," rumbled the wizard warmly. He laughed deeply. "I might have known."

"We were afraid we wouldn't see you this night, Gandalf, sir," admitted Sam. It was true enough. For the past few hours, the wizard had been all but invisible, constantly speaking with Elves and men about undoubtedly important matters. They had hardly seen him at all for more than a second as a flash of white moving through the gathering.

Gandalf patted Sam's head affectionately. "Do not be silly, Samwise! I would not miss this opportunity!" The wizard smiled again, and the group watched him with great interest. "Lord Elrond has informed me that the evening is crystal clear. Perhaps some entertainment is in order. These Elvish parties can be quite boring, if you follow. I believe I might be able to scrounge up a firework or two…"

Merry and Pippin broke into wildly foolish and mischievous grins. Gandalf teased as he continued, "And if you two prove to be well enough behaved, I may allow you to choose which we will launch. I have not forgotten the debacle you made of Bilbo's 111th birthday party."

"We would never, Gandalf-"

"Honest!"

Sam smiled, feeling whatever remained of his doubt and dismay fade in the warmth of camaraderie. He intended to enjoy this evening in the company of his closest friends. He had certainly earned it. They all had.

The wizard laughed. "Come along, then. I will teach you how to properly make shape from light and thunder from silence! Oh, to dazzle the senses! This is our last night here in this beautiful city. Let us inform the stars of it!"

* * *

There was a quiet spot in the forests beyond Rivendell. It was a small clearing surrounded by tall, ancient trees that not often parted their full and concealing canopies to allow for the prying eyes of visitors. Aragorn had long ago found this spot. During his youth, he had often wandered in the woods surrounding his home in search of the ideal nook for thinking and lazing. So often had he come here to be alone, for it was quiet enough that others rarely ventured upon it but no so far as to ever be utterly separated from the Elven city. When he had learned to trust Legolas, he had brought his friend to this little alcove. Together they had often rested here after hunt or game, content to relax and sleep in the sun without pressing care or responsibility.

Now they both lay in the grass, the soft blades cool and clean against them. Overhead was a beautiful sea of shining stars. They were a million specks of twinkling white in a dark blanket of midnight, winking and watching the world as eternal and tireless sentinels. Aragorn spent a futile moment trying to count the tiny dots, but he quickly lost interest and the task was truly impossible. He wondered at all they had seen and all they would see. The life of a mortal or even immortal was but the blink of an eye to them. Sometimes he envied them this knowledge. The toils of time never touched them. Was such a gift a great freedom or a terrible curse?

"Eärendil is quite beautiful tonight," Legolas commented quietly. Aragorn turned his head to gaze upon his friend. The archer rested beside him, his long body flat along the ground and thin enough that the long green blades of the grass poked up around him. He was bracing the back of his head on his hands. His eyes were glazed, distant.

Aragorn smiled and looked upward once more. "Yes, it is."

They lapsed into a companionable silence. Music and muffled conversation was just barely audible, as they were not quite far enough away from the palace as to not hear the grand celebration within. Aragorn thought of the last few hours. He had remained at the gathering for quite a bit, conversing with Elves and men, sharing experiences and accepting congratulations. He had never been comfortable in stuffy events such as that. Still, he had managed to steal a few dances with Lady Arwen, blissful to simply be in her arms. In the quiet moments, she had assured him that her father had finally given them his blessing. The news had sent Aragorn into an excited dizzy spell, and the room seemed to spin as they whirled around the dance floor. She had also told him she would return with him to Gondor, just as he had fervently wished she would.

It had been a grand night indeed!

So full of pride and joy, he spoke, feeling that if he did not, he might simply burst. "It is so amazing, my dear friend," he said breathlessly, smiling broadly. "We have done a remarkable thing! And now all is well in the world. I had my doubts, but I was foolish to even consider them. Look and see what we have ensured!"

Legolas grunted. "You act as thought it was you who tossed the Ring into the fiery chasm, Aragorn," he jested lightly. Still, there was something in his voice that Aragorn did not miss. A note of pain. A bit of sadness. Regret.

The ranger wanted to hit himself for his stupidity. How terribly thoughtless of him to congratulate himself on a job well done when Legolas had lost so much in doing it! "Legolas, I am so sorry. I did not think."

The archer did not turn to look at him. They were silent then, and time passed slowly. Legolas' breathing had become quite even and deep, and Aragorn wondered if his friend had drifted off into slumber. It had been a busy day, and even he was tired, filled with good food, wine, and spirit. He did not have the courage to confirm his suspicions, feeling wretched for his damned inconsiderate words.

The forest and music spoke in their stead for quite some time. Then the emptiness grew too unbearable for Aragorn, and he said softly, "It would have been worth nothing had you not survived."

"Do not say such a thing." The ranger leaned up on his elbows and looked over at Legolas. The archer seemed so calm, his eyes closed but obviously very much alert. "My life was insignificant. We both knew this. Hence I knew you should not come for me, and you knew you could not." He released a slow breath, and his bright blue eyes cracked open. "I am sorry, Aragorn, for the way I acted the day you returned. It was truly disgraceful of me to blame you for what happened. You did not lay this curse upon me. In fact, I should thank you, for you saved my life, even when I would not."

"I did nothing of the sort, dear friend."

"Nay," Legolas continued, his voice firm and leaving no room for question, "you dragged me back into the light and forced me to look upon myself without disgust. You bade me to have hope. And in doing so, you gave me light." Aragorn felt relieved at the words. He watched as Legolas' lips turned up in a small smile. "My brother Vardaithil said the strangest thing to me ere I left Mirkwood. He told me that the things we have done and the people we love are at times more important that who we are." He shook his head. "I never thought I would hear him say such a thing."

"The Lord is wise indeed."

"Yes, but I think in his own way, he was trying to understand how I had come to grips with what happened. For my family, being an Elf is the greatest asset one can have. It defines your existence and promises you pride and power. And yet my mortal friends are  _my_  greatest asset. You always have been. You have given so much strength and love. Were it not for you, I would have died. I know it. Perhaps that is why I am able to accept this fate." Legolas met Aragorn's gaze. His deep blue eyes held such brotherly affection that Aragorn felt his heart tighten with emotion. "This curse has bound me more tightly to you."

The words struck Aragorn's ears and filled his mind with a sense of completion. Legolas smiled. "I am glad I call you brother, Aragorn, son of Arathorn."

"I am glad I call you the same, Legolas, son of Thranduil."

The bond was reformed, stronger than ever before. Aragorn felt it as though it were a real, tangible bridge between their hearts. Numbed by joy, he sank back down into the grass and returned his gaze to the stars. They were quiet again for a bit, content in the silence to simply feel and know the peace of the evening. The stars smiled upon them, bright and illustrious.

"I slipped some mud into Elladan's boots before he dressed this evening."

Surprise rattled through the ranger. "You did  _what?_ "

Legolas grinned impishly. "I thought I would repay him his haughty comments," he declared most matter-of-factly.

Emptiness. A rather hilarious picture of the Elf prince's stoic face burning bright red in embarrassment as the slimy mud squished uncomfortably into his stockings found its way into Aragorn's mind, and he burst out laughing. Legolas managed to maintain a serious expression a moment longer before he too succumbed.

Great, loud laughing filled the quiet clearing. It was a joyous sound, spreading through the night and telling any who might hear of the release the two friends found. There was no curse, no painful memory, no fear. There was just this silly moment of frivolity.

Legolas' laughs gradually died away. Finally Aragorn calmed enough to speak. The man wiped the tears from his eyes. "He will repay you ten-fold for that, Legolas, and you know it well!" he declared, watching the stars twinkle at their display. He swallowed a giggle. "Ai, what a sight! I think we ought to return to that party just to gloat!"

There came a monstrous bang overhead, and suddenly the sky was filled with magnificent sparkles of all colors. Aragorn's eyes widened at the display, watching intensely as the tiny red and pink flames fell from the sky like shooting stars. Then there was another boom and a blinding flash. It exploded outward into a sphere of dangling green lights. Aragorn's heart sped with excitement and awe. "It seems the little ones convinced Gandalf to light the sky this evening for us!" he declared.

After another thud and bang, a beautiful picture of a green tree spread through the black sky. Aragorn marveled at its intricate splendor. "Did you see that one, Legolas?" There was no response from the still form beside him. Somewhat concerned, Aragorn leaned up and glanced over. "Legolas?"

But his dear friend had fallen asleep.

* * *

Legolas was dreaming of Mirkwood. He was dreaming of great glorious woods, of places beautiful and verdant, of ancient trees with full canopies of bright green leaves. He was running in the dark forest, running so very fast. He did not know towards what he was sprinting. And though he was moving terribly quickly, he was not winded nor tired. He flew through the forest, searching for an answer, for a truth to unlock the substance of the darkness he still held within. For a long time he ran, his eyes scanning all places in this black maze of trunk and leaf, endlessly looking. Love directed his feet. Hope showed him the way.

And finally he found it.

In this dream he approached the great, old tree in the forest. It was so very dark in this place, the shadow covering everyting. Only the tree meagerly glowed, but its light seemed to be weak and waning. It stood before him in such majesty, rising from the ground to tower over him with limbs wide and thick and leaves great and smooth. He stood still a moment, watching, wondering. It was the same tree with which he had so often in the past shared his most intimate joys and pains. It was the companion to his soul and its song had always so vividly and powerfully filled his mind, bringing to him a sense of ageless serenity.

Now it was silent.

Tentatively he stepped closer. He shook, though not from the exertion from the run, but of fear and apprehension. At any moment this tree might reject him, after all. He was stained by shadow, ruined and unworthy. Though he knew this, he could not stop his steps, and he moved closer and closer. The tree breathed, its massive trunk pulsing powerfully with the force of all life. How he longed to touch the bark, to feel its spirit caress his fingers, to know its timeless strength! Perhaps it might allow him this one last luxury… He was so frightened, so desperate to hear again its song! Would it now shun him? Would it turn its back upon its loving child, disgusted by the aura of the darkness all around him? He reached forth this hand, moving closer and closer to the trunk.

From the trunk burst forth a tiny light. It floated before him, dangling before his eyes. Curious, he reached out to touch it, but it was far too quick to catch and darted away. For a moment it lingered at the trunk, floating against the rough, brown bark. Then, with a flash, it raced up the tree's length and disappeared into the foliage.

It made so little sense, but in the dream world, he did not think to understand. Instead, he grabbed a low branch of the tree and pulled himself up. His body abruptly felt weak and heavy, and he nearly fell, but he would not be dissuaded. He struggled to right himself and eventually planted his feet upon the sturdy limb. Looking up, he could just barely see the spot of light, tantalizing him as it floated in and out of the tree's leaves. Vehemence glinted in his eyes, and he began to climb.

He did not know how long he fought to pull himself up the great, old tree. Time did not exist in this plane. Vaguely, he knew this strange place to be surreal, to be only a figment of his sleeping mind. But he could not concentrate enough on this train of conscious thought to break free from his task. There was no sweat. His heart did not beat. He did not grow light-headed or short of breath. He just hauled his heavy body up onto each wide, thick limb, struggling with every ounce of his being. This was his existence. This was what he must do.

Finally he reached the top.

With a soundless cry, he broke through the very pinnacle of the green canopy. Quickly he looked around. Where had the flash gone? Where?

He felt heat, a blinding, powerful light. And he looked up.

The sun! At long last, he had found it!

It was above him, great and beautiful, and its powerful rays enveloped him. He closed his eyes and stood then, still and calm, as the light washed over him. So strong was its force, it penetrated his flesh and bone as though none existed at all, and reached his heart. There it began to work.  _I renounce what I was to accept what I am. I do not despair. I love and am loved. I am alive!_

_I am alive!_

The light sundered the holds of the black prison. The arms of curse withered and wilted under the blasting beams of illumination, the weak and cowardly shadow unable to withstand the light of truth. Wave after wave filled him, pushing away the black magic and revealing what had been hidden. What had not been destroyed.

Forever he stood there, knowing, breathing, healing. Finally, its deep, black roots had been obliterated, and he was free.  _He was free!_

Silence. Then a song. The wind rustling through the leaves. One, then many, many more. A chorus of nature, of light and life. A joyous melody of good and peace. It reached out to him, seeking his deprived spirit, slipping into his brutalized heart. Deep within it caressed to life his blood once more. The melody filled him, and his soul sang in overwhelming joy. The deafening quiet was no longer tormenting him, and his heart began to beat!

The Elf opened his eyes. A vast and endless sky surrounded him. It was breathtaking, beautiful and blue, deep and soothing. He tasted tears, smelled the fresh wind, felt weightless. All of Middle Earth called to him and he answered, crying out his gratitude, singing his renewal. He was whole again.

He dreamt of things lost, of things gained. In this blue void he saw Boromir and Astaldogald. He saw Aragorn, Gimli, and Gandalf, Merry, Pippin, Sam and Frodo, Arwen and her family… Aratadarion and Vardaithil. His father. His mother. Their love had given him such strength. Their sacrifice had taught him the value of life, immortal or not. If not for them, would he have escaped? Would he have found his path through those endless dark woods?

He smiled and took a step. The wind swept him skyward, and he was flying, soaring, higher and higher, up into the deep and dreamless blue.

Into the waiting arms of the sun.

_When the cold of winter comes, starless night will cover day.  
In the veiling of the sun, we will walk in bitter rain._

_But in dreams… I can hear your name.  
And in dreams… we will meet again._

_When the seas and mountains fall, and we come to end of days,  
In the dark, I hear a call… calling me there.  
I will go there and back again.  
_— Howard Shore,  _The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring_

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who read and commented on this story! It goes way back (way back), so it was nice to see people enjoying it again. Special thanks to E, my beta-reader, who helped me ten years ago when I first wrote this and is still helping me today :-).
> 
> If you're looking for more of my writings, I have a few other _Lord of the Rings_ stories, in addition to rather large collection of works about Marvel's _The Avengers_. Check my profile page!
> 
> Feel free to follow me on Twitter (@thegraytigress) for story updates, announcements, and discussions! And come find me on [tumblr](http://thegraytigress.tumblr.com/)!


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